The Five Fs
by MizSphinx
Summary: <html><head></head>Hermione thinks being in love is a worthless waste of time and energy. She's determined to prove this fact to the world, and has found the perfect person to help her in this mission. But it's just too bad that Draco has other plans...</html>
1. Find Him

**Post Edit:** Oops. In my haste, I forgot to proof-read this entirely, thus I had Hermione mumbling...under her desk...when it should be 'under her breath', and I also forgot to attach the mandatory disclaimer! Here we go then.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I don't make any money writing Harry Potter fanfiction. Dig it?

_Prologue: The Five Fs  
><em>

* * *

><p>What are the Five Fs, you ask? Well, The Five Fs is a simplistic list of five words that all begins with the letter 'F.' The Five Fs is a rudimentary guideline in which a man—or woman—can utilise to date the opposite sex. The list is as follows:<p>

Find them

Friend them

Feed them

Fuck them

Forget them

Of course, this is only one variation of the Five Fs. Over the years, many users of this basic, albeit clever, list have changed a few of the F-words to suit themselves accordingly—namely the first three listings. Some examples I have encountered are: Feel them, Finger them, Fool them, and French them. However, regardless of whatever new words you incorporate into this list, the general rule is to maintain the last two: Fuck them and Forget them.

Indeed, it is a crude, maybe disgusting, dating guideline. Possibly the worst! For the many sappy, optimistic souls that believe in quickening heart beats, fluttering bellies, and _love, _this atrocious list would provoke them to indescribable anger! Not to mention the happily-ever-after hopefuls. My goodness, they'll fly into apoplectic fits when they read the final bit about 'Forgetting them'!

Alas, this list is not for the above-mentioned. This list is for realists. For the practical, level-headed people who lead busy lives but still enjoy the occasional good bit of nookie. It is also designed for those who would rather avoid emotional attachments or those who find that falling in love is too much work with not enough gain. Thus, if you are one of those aforementioned, then this list is just right for you.

But isn't this a very selfish list, you ask? And I answer: who cares? This list is not for the considerate. For one to implement this list flawlessly, one must attain a heart of ice and stone. The moment you question the narcissistic undertones of this list, you will find yourself hooked, line and sinker, in A Relationship. You will be lassoed tight by one of the above-mentioned 'sappy, optimistic souls' who are convinced that You Can Change.

Yes, this list is selfish. As I said, it's bloody downright disgusting! But it works. It is the solution to your problems in romance. Why hope for your Soulmate to come waltzing along? No such thing exists! That is a ridiculous notion invented by those romanticist idiots! Instead, live your life _your _way. Enjoy it, and the person of the night who's sharing your bed. And when you're finished, forget the episode ever happened and start all over again.

If you're truly not convinced of the success of this list, then let me, Hermione Jean Granger, show you how it's done.

* * *

><p><em><span>Chapter One: Find Them<span>  
><em>

I stare at my laptop screen with a smug little smile on my face. This article that I am working on is certainly shaping up rather nicely. I don't think I'll be one bit surprised if I win 'Journalist of the Month' with this baby. It is sarcastic, down-to-earth and humourous: the perfect mix. Not even Jeanne, with her cruddy, lovey-dovey, vomit-inducing piece about how fucking _wonderful_ 'being in a committed relationship is' is going to get it. This time around, _I _will be the champion, bitch!

Ahem.

Anyway, regardless if I win—which I will—I am happy enough that Peter accepted my proposal of this piece. It hadn't been easy. It had taken much pestering, begging, demanding and knicker-showing to get him around to the idea, but eventually that stubborn Peter Mosley had buckled. With bulging eyes directed at my crossed legs, he'd licked his lips and agreed. The pervert.

Still, that is the past; this is the present. Writing this article will not be all fun and games. It is my duty to carry out a real-life practical about what I am writing. I am to find a man, friend a man, feed a man, fuck a man, forget a man, and then write my experience up for all and sundry to read. My example is to be the proof of the efficacy of this list. I am to show the world that love is for the blind, and that the blind who lead the blind all fall over in a ditch, and that deep, dark, damned ditch is love. Simple, really.

No, it is not.

How am I to convince the masses that love, from my eight years of horrible experiences, is a _bad _thing? That it is a worthless, evil, and over-possessive emotion that worms its way into your psyche and destroys you from within? That when you fall into its clutches, it strips you bare and leaves you open for an attack that takes forever to heal? That it robs you of all independence, coherency and sensibility?

A vague memory of Ron threatens to become lucid before I immediately blink and force it away. I don't want to think of Ron. I don't have enough time for that. I have to find a man, and quick too. My piece is due by the first week of next month, which means I have just about four weeks to implement my Five Fs dating regime and make it work.

_But where am I to find a bloke willing enough?_

I laugh to myself. What am I thinking? Finding a bloke to shag was as easy as—

"Granger!" It is Peter Mosley, editor-in-chief of 'Bewitched,' a magazine with a similar premise like the Muggles' 'Cosmopolitan.' It is filled to the brim with articles on why to have sex, how to have sex, when to have sex, where to have sex, and with whom to have sex. A very educational magazine, I must say.

"Yes?" I respond.

"C'mere, we've a newbie on deck."

I stand, sighing heavily, then glare at my other sniggering co-workers. However, I couldn't fault them. If it'd been me, I would've been sniggering too. It isn't oodles of fun, fun, fun being the resident Babysitter to the Trainee. Good grief, the questions those trainees tended to ask! Had I been like that once? Impossible. I am never such a swot.

"Coming!"

I make my way to Peter's office, grumbling under my breath about inconsiderate lazy lechers for bosses. When I enter his cavernous suite—and I say _suite_ due to the adjoining bathroom and bedroom hidden behind his bookshelf—I find him seated behind his expansive desk in his plushy, bloody-expensive leather chair, and his feet on his desk, ankles crossed. He is engaged in a conversation with a blond-haired fellow who is seated as well, his back turned to me.

_Ah, the newbie. Blond, too. Looks fake. Probably dyed…_

"Mr. Mosley," I announce myself.

"Ah, Granger," he greets with a smile that, for some reason, only showcase the top-half of his teeth. It never ceases to amaze me of Peter Mosley's incredible likeness to Harry's Uncle Vernon. Both of them with their portly bodies, beady eyes and awful moustaches that…that _wiggled_ sometimes without warning, and without cause. "Glad that you're here."

"Yes, because you called," I say sweetly.

"Yes, yes," he nods, then motions to the new guy. My gaze redirects to the back of his blond head again, then travel downwards. Strong shoulders, wide. Possibly a gymnasium fanatic. "Granger, this is our new guy on staff…"

_By the way, why hasn't he turned around yet?_

"…he'll be replacing Jerry on the men's section…"

_Is he nervous? Maybe he's hideous?_

"…Malfoy."

"What?" I am slapped back to reality at the sound of the name.

The blond man stands, and in the moments before he turns, I register his fine, obviously tailored grey suit. Must have cost an arm and a leg, then a few bags of galleons too…

Peter gives me an irritated look. "Are you deaf? I said, his name is—"

"Draco…" I whisper as I find myself face to face with an older, _gorgeous _version of my school nemesis. His sky-grey eyes find mine, our gazes lock like heat missiles finding their targets. My goodness, when did he become so good-looking? _When_?

"Granger."

"…Malfoy."

And without even questioning the sanity of such a decision, my mind is made up on the spot. At one glance—lust at first sight, no doubt—I have found the bloke that I will consequently friend, feed, fuck—_oh my!_—and forget.

Find him? Check!

* * *

><p>AN: So how'd you like it? This is new to me on many counts: my first first-person in fanfiction, my first written-in-present tense, and my first Hermione-is-quirky. Do hope you like my version of her because I really, <em>really<em> do. This is not going to be a long and drawn out story so be warned! I can't say for sure how long, but it MAY not surpass ten chapters. Anywho, feedback would be wonderful! :)


	2. Friend or French?

AN: Many thanks to my newly acquired beta-reader for this story, _nelpher_. She did a wonderful job of deleting, correcting, scolding and frowning, but it was all for the best in the end. Thanks muchly, darling!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and/or the original characters of the story created by J.K. Rowling.

_Chapter Two: Friend or French?_

Silence descends as we survey each other, and as Peter Mosley surveys us. Draco's eyes hold mine for a moment longer before they meander slowly down then up my body, pausing momentarily at the chunky beaded necklace that hang to my midsection.

I feel like I'm being stripped naked.

And I don't mind.

Ugh.

I am disgusted by my behaviour. Since when did I develop the mind of a hopeless tart? I am Hermione bloody Granger. Miss Prim and Proper. I am not to be suddenly thinking how positively exquisite it would be if Draco Malfoy bends me over Peter's mahogany desk, hoists the skirt of my dress up and—

"Granger, what a pleasant surprise."

He says 'pleasant' as though it's completely the opposite of what he means to say and I roll my eyes at this. Well, if he wants to start off on an unfriendly footing, then I shan't disappoint.

"Maybe for you it is," I respond casually, "but I'd rather call this an 'unfortunate coincidence.'"

One of his eyebrows lifts. Just one. And it immediately transforms his features into absolute boredom.

"What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be off with your two lap dogs trying to save the world?"

"No, not really," I smile sweetly. "That's my part-time job. But on most days, like today, I work as a journalist where, occasionally, I help train snarky snots like you."

This time, both eyebrows lift then settle down into a scowl. "Good God, if I'm to be stuck with you for the rest of the day then I'd rather resign."

For some inexplicable reason, this comment hurts. A snide, tactless Draco Malfoy is as common as sunshine in the summer, and hoping for a change is ridiculous.

"Please do," I reply coldly. "You certainly wouldn't be missed."

I turn and stalk out of Peter's office, now aware that my boss had been listening to our conversation. I return to my desk, determined to write a bit more on my project, but my concentration is shot to bits. Draco Malfoy's sudden appearance, and my uncharacteristic reaction to him bothers me. This occurrence needed serious analysing, and, with serious analysing, one needed fuel for the long journey ahead.

I go and buy a Three Musketeers bar from the office snack box.

But still, an hour later, I am no closer to deciphering this enigma. I can only state facts: Draco Malfoy and I hate each other's guts. Draco Malfoy has grown up and now looks sexy as fu—

"Granger."

My gulp of water goes down the wrong way, and I cough and choke like I'm about to die. Of course, like the prick that he is, he doesn't have the decency to slap my back in the hopes that I recover swiftly. Instead, he stands there and watches me gasp for air like a fish that's been grabbed cruelly from the ocean. He looks on as though he's just waiting for me to just die.

And knowing how evil Malfoy is, I won't be surprised if that's exactly what he's doing.

Finally, after a few experimental throat-clearings, I look up and give him my best glare.

"What do you want?"

"I want you…"

"What?" I'm astounded, flabbergasted, amazed! Secretly pleased…

"…to give me a tour."

"Oh."

Silence.

I stare at him, he stares at me, and a heavy awareness rises within me. Merlin, this is wrong. Why am I behaving so foolishly? So what if life had dealt Malfoy a good hand? So what if he had blossomed from an annoying little sod into an attractive man? Shouldn't I be in fits of fury and disgust? Shouldn't I treat Malfoy's presence with calm, cool and collected indifference? Look at him! He seems perfectly unaffected by me.

_Does this mean that I haven't changed much since he last saw me?_

"Granger."

"What?" I blink rapidly as I return to the present.

"The tour?" he urges. "I haven't got all day to dawdle away with you."

I scowl. "Why are you asking me for a tour? Haven't you handed in your resignation yet?"

He issues a world-weary sigh. "Had I done so, would I have been asking you for a tour, Granger? You really aren't very smart, are you?"

Anger rises within me instantaneously.

"You know what, Malfoy?"

"I'm positively giddy with expectation."

"Eff your tour, and most especially: eff you."

* * *

><p>In the end, Wendy from the advertising department gives him the tour. However, I am still stuck with his general training. My attention officially gone, I find myself wasting time over a game of computer solitaire. I'm not very good at it. It's the only game I've yet to conquer due to its chancy nature. But that doesn't matter, I've still got—I look at my wristwatch—approximately five more hours to become a professional.<p>

Stupid Malfoy.

I hate him.

He's such an arsehole.

A _good-looking_ arsehole.

But still a filthy, good-for-nothing, despicable, offensive, unpleasant, evil arsehole.

With a great arse, I notice. Wendy made mention of it, and after a surreptitious look, I must agree. He probably did squats to achieve such a firm, squeezable arse like that.

There I go again, being a prime trollop.

Sighing, I exit my solitaire game where the score is a pitiful four, and where the timer has already advanced to a whopping seven hundred and sixty nine. I retrieve the saved document of my typed article and reread the first few paragraphs. I then type his name next to the italicised 'Find Him.' However, doubt concerning the wisdom of using Draco Malfoy as my test-subject enters my mind, and I wonder why I even entertained the idea.

Why would I want to be friends with Malfoy, let alone have sex with him? Doing so would defeat the purpose of my experiment. My main goal is to prove that long-term relationships were bothersome, and that love is a thorn in the side. I am to show that forgetting about the person was as easy as basic mathematics. But would I easily forget about my experiences with Draco Malfoy?

_Yes, of course!_

Of course, I would, wouldn't I? He is the perfect choice. He's not a complete stranger, yet he holds no significant place in my life. Regardless of the fact that we went to school together, and have been, and currently still are enemies, I am sure that these facts could be overlooked for the greater cause. Also, I could even share my theory with him. You know. Make the whole affair easy. Strike a bargain of sorts.

_But where's the fun in that?_

Where, indeed. Conquering Draco Malfoy is a juicy challenge. To make him forget about all of his idiotic blood-purity claptrap long enough to stick it in me—

Merlin, I sound like a tramp.

I, Hermione Jean Granger, am not a tramp. I am a realist. It is an apt descriptor of sex. In order for us to…to…_do it_, he has to, simply put: 'stick it in me.'

Still, 'stick it in me' sounds so…_rude_.

Deliciously rude.

I pinch myself. This is not like me. Not like me, at all. I have thought more about sex today than in all the months—eight—since I've last had it. I needn't act like a horny bugger. There's much work to be done instead of concocting various ways Draco Malfoy can 'stick it in me.' Honestly! I blame all of this lollygagging on Malfoy!

"Granger."

Speak of the devil.

"What?" I snap. "What do you want now, Malfoy?"

"I want you…"

"What?"

"…to show me where the fax machine is." And he has the audacity to smirk.

"Oh." I try not to sound disappointed; there's no bloody reason to be. "Um…okay. Be right with you."

I save my article, although I haven't added much to it, and then close my laptop. Rising, I ignore Draco's persistent gaze on me as he steps aside and allows me to lead the way. As I walk, I am conscious of his presence mere inches behind me, and a rising feeling that he's staring at my arse attacks me. However, I immediately dismiss that idea. Even if he is staring, it's certainly not appreciatively. Most likely, he's saving up so he can make some sarcastic barb concerning my appearance.

We arrive at the door clearly marked 'Electronics.' It is one room of two that houses various electronic machines ranging from photocopiers, printers, fax machines, scanners and the like. As most of us are jammed into little boxes…err…_cubicles_, we cannot afford the luxury of an all-in-one machine situated conveniently on our desks. Instead, we must scurry off to the 'Electronics' room with a hope that there isn't a queue awaiting us. So attached we've all grown to these Muggle appliances, we've almost completely forgotten that we're witches and wizards.

I point at the sign on the door and say, "Your fax machine awaits."

For a moment, he gives me an odd look that I cannot name. Then he responds: "Open the door. I need you to show me how it's done."

_Oh, I bet you already know_, comes the salacious thought, and I swat it away.

"It's fairly easy, Malfoy," I say in superior tones as I open the door and fumble along the wall for the light switch. "Even an arrogant—"

My sentence is cut short when my body is suddenly shoved forwards. Before I could whip my wand out—where was it when I needed some light?—my wrists are grabbed by a strong, warm pair of hands, and my back is pressed up against the door, effectively shutting it, and any outside light from filtering into the room. Darkness envelops me, and so does rising hysteria.

"What—"

Again, I am cut short, but this time from a kiss. His lips touch mine, and then he catches my bottom lip and begins to suck gently. This action immediately dispels all notions of fright, and I open my mouth in a tiny exhale of pleasure. He takes advantage of this by deepening the kiss. His tongue teases mine into a dance, and I relent, kissing back fully, and enjoying the smooth confidence of my kisser.

Confidence.

Draco.

_Draco Malfoy is kissing me._

And just as I finish that thought, the kiss is suddenly broken.

The door is abruptly opened, forcing me to step away lest it strikes me. Light enters where the door is held ajar, and my suspicions are confirmed as I find Draco gazing at me with a satisfied little smirk on his face.

"You know, Granger, kissing strangers in a dark room is very unwise."

Something screams at me that I demand why he kissed me.

That same something also screams that I hex him a good Jelly-Legs jinx for taking privileges with my person.

But he disappears into the outer office before I can do any of this, and the only thought that really formulates coherently is:

_Wow._

* * *

><p>AN: The turnout for the first chapter was absolutely wonderful! Thank you, dearies, for your lovely reviews! As I stated before, this story is not intended to be a long-runner, thus the short chapters and the snapshot feel to the story. In any case, hope you enjoy the update!<p> 


	3. You Feel Me?

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and/or the characters of the original story created by J.K. Rowling.

_Chapter Three: You Feel Me?_

The next day, I wobble into work very late, immensely grateful that Peter is not in today. I am suffering from the evilest hangover ever, and it's just my luck that my Hangover-B-Gone potion bottle is empty. Like a zombie from one of those apocalypse-type movies, I moan every few seconds as I drag myself to my cubicle. I'm in bad need of an extra-strong cup of hazelnut coffee. The bit I had at home didn't even lift my drooping eyelids one iota.

"Granger, you look like shit, and your breath smells like it too."

"Piss off, Malfoy," I reply. "Do the world a favour and die."

"With your dragon breath, I just might."

He leaves me in peace for the time being.

After depositing my bags beneath my tiny desk, I make my way to the kitchen to prepare a cup of coffee, regretting my decision to have a night out with Lavender and Ginny immensely. Why I'd decided to go clubbing with those two, knowing I had work the next day was beyond me. But I have a suspicion it was because of stupid Malfoy. No, scratch 'suspicion.' I _know _it was because of stupid Malfoy.

That kiss of his had blown me off course. Here I'd been, merrily working my way up from assistant journalist (i.e. slave of all other senior staff) to one day becoming Chief Editor, when out of nowhere, Malfoy, my longtime foe, jumps me and kisses me. And instead of being sensible by hexing his arse six ways till Sunday, I'd stood there and relished it. I'd enjoyed the feel of the mouth that had made most of my school life terrible.

As a matter of fact, to make the situation ten times worse, I am undeniably attracted to that beast.

That is so…_ridiculous_—for lack of a better word. It just didn't make any sense. And because I'm a logical person at heart, the nonsensicalness of it all had driven me to _La Perra Mala_ to dance and drink my troubles away with Lavender and Ginny by my side.

In the kitchen, whilst I prepare my coffee, I manage to get a glimpse of myself in the reflective glass in the cupboard doors. I hadn't paid much attention to my appearance before leaving my flat, but the sight in the glass horrifies me. My hair is a total mess, scattered every which way as though I'd suffered a large electrical shock. The makeup Ginny had coaxed me into wearing hadn't been completely wiped off, and a few dark eye-shadow stains had worked their way down the sides of my cheek. And from what I can see, my blouse is on inside-out.

No wonder those damn buttons had been so hard to button up.

Merlin.

I _do_ look like shit.

And Malfoy had seen me this way.

I emit another zombie-moan.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, while sitting at my desk after putting my appearance to rights, I hear:<p>

"H-h-hello, Herm-m-mione!"

This is Ned Flanders. Sadly, he is not the famously over-zealous, Christian widower with two cute little sons, and an amazingly buff cartoon body. He's just regular, scrawny Ned (Nedworth—_Nedworth_!) Flanders, second-in-command in the graphics design department, and plagued by an awful stammer. He also has a mighty crush on yours truly. A crush that yours truly has tried in vain to dispel, but has still found herself unsuccessful in achieving.

Amidst his many undesirable qualities—his squeaky voice, his occasional sexist remarks, his constant superior attitude—the one I despise the most is his resemblance to Ron Weasley. Despite the fact that his hair is not as red, and his face is not as freckled, his attitude is so reminiscent of the boy I once loved that it disgusts and infuriates me. It's as though there's no escaping the memory of Ron Weasley no matter where I go.

"Hello, Ned," I reply distractedly, pretending to be so absorbed in my work when I'm actually typing nonsense words in my word processor like: asdfjklocopantssexystuff!#

I'm such a diligent employee.

"H-h-how are y-you?"

"I'm fine, thanks." I make no effort to politely enquire after his welfare as well. It only encourages him.

"Th-that's g-good," he nods, then: "H-He-Hermione?"

Oh God no. He's going to do it again. After countless refusals, he's going to ask me out for lunch, and I'll have to make up some new ludicrous excuse like the one I used three days ago: my grandmother got trampled by a runaway flock of sheep and I've got to go visit her in the hospital.

"H-Hermione, I w-w-was w-w-wondering if y-you'd l-l-like t-to go t-to l-lunch w-with—"

"Get lost, four eyes," Malfoy suddenly interjects as he sidles up behind me. Then, already dismissing poor Ned, "Granger, what's that rubbish you're typing? Losing your eyesight? Maybe you really _should _go out with speccy for lunch. You'll be the perfect couple, wouldn't you say? Both hideous and blind."

I ignore Draco's comment, but Ned has gone red in the face. "Y-y-you g-g-git! I sh-sh-should—"

It's too painful to watch, or listen to. It's a known fact that folks suffering from a bad stammer only get worse in moments of embarrassment and anger. Ned's attempt at insulting Draco Malfoy is triply horrible because Malfoy is the king, master and god of insults. This situation has only one outcome: Ned Flanders running away in unmanly tears.

"Ned," I speak up before he can finish his stammering slur, and before Malfoy's evil sneer can fully materialise, "I'm sorry, but I cannot go to lunch with you. I-I've…err…Mr. Malfoy, here, has already asked me to lunch."

Ned's face begins to resemble a tomato. Clenching his fists at his sides, he glares between me and Malfoy before spinning away from my cubicle to walk back to his office. A beat of silence passes before I hear the smirk in Malfoy's voice as he says:

"I have?"

"Yes, you have," I say tightly. "Now let's go before I change my mind."

* * *

><p>Why did I go through with this? Why? Do I have some ingrained masochistic tendency? Why would I put myself through an hour's torture of being in Draco Malfoy's company? Where had my senses wandered off to? Probably to Timbuktu.<p>

We are sitting on the patio of _Fran's_, a chic little Muggle bistro with astounding prices on the menu. It was Malfoy's choice when he'd heard I'd be paying. Yet another crazy, thoughtless idea of mine: to offer up my meagre bank account to be slaughtered. And for what? To sit and listen whilst Malfoy vilified me as he stuffed his face full of a fifteen quid tuna sandwich? I think not.

I am just about to slam the menu down on the marble-top of our table when I'm suddenly reminded of my project. My dating regime of The Five Fs. After friend-ing the man, I was to feed him, wasn't I? And regardless of the fact that I'd envisioned a home cooked meal—one I was sure to burn due to my weak grasp of the culinary arts—taking him out to lunch was certainly a good alternative.

_But you're still not friends._

No, Malfoy and I will never attain such a relationship. The notion was highly outrageous. For my plan, it only mattered that we could exchange a few decent words. And no, it didn't matter that those 'decent words' usually involved swearwords, cheap shots and dirty insults. Besides, we kissed, didn't we? That had to count for something.

Wait. We _did_ kiss. Well…he kissed me!

"Malfoy, why did you kiss me yesterday?"

"And what would you be having, sir, ma'am?" the waiter interrupts.

"I'd like the Caesar salad—" begins Draco, ignoring me.

My eyes automatically zoom to the price: 10 quid. Good. He's merciful…

"—with chicken breast—"

Beside 'with chicken breast' is a neat: 'add 5 quid.'

"—and with the black tiger shrimps."

And next to the 'with black tiger shrimps' is: 'add 8 quid.'

Effing twenty-three quid. And he didn't even order his drink yet.

"And your drink, sir? We've recently introduced a new brand of apple martinis to our menu. It's splendid with the salad, sir." It's as if Malfoy and the waiter are of similar minds: ruin Hermione Granger's pocket with a ten quid apple martini that will be swallowed whole in one gulp.

"Certainly," Malfoy stares at the waiter's nametag, "Geoffrey. I'll have the martini with my salad, thanks."

Thirty-three bloody quid and I haven't even ordered yet. I want to strangle Malfoy until his smirking face turns blue. My fingers twitch with the need to do so.

"And you, ma'am?" says Geoffrey.

I glare up at him. "Just the lentil soup."

Geoffrey gives me a 'my-aren't-you-the-stingy-one' smile, and I don't care. After Malfoy's extravagant meal, so what if I go with a ten quid soup?

"And your drink?"

"Water." Because water is always free.

"Will that be all, sir, ma'am?"

"Yes, _Geoffrey_, that will be all, thanks," I interject sternly as Malfoy opens his mouth to say more.

Geoffrey saunters off to get our meals in order, and I turn my glare on Malfoy. A strange look usurps his face—much like the one I'd witnessed yesterday—then disappears before I could read it properly. His features return to impassivity bordering on extreme boredom. The sudden change disturbs me. It's as though Malfoy's…hiding something. But what?

This discovery halts my tongue, which had already been sharpened for combat regarding his overkill on my insufficient funds. I remember my previous question before the waiter had interrupted me, and repeat it.

"Does it matter? You liked it, didn't you?"

I blush. "Regardless if I liked it or not, Malfoy, the question is: why did you do it?"

His face suddenly becomes serious. The intensity of his gaze roots me to the spot. "Because I wanted to. I've always wanted to, Granger."

I am gobsmacked, appalled, and, yes, a little delighted by his admission—

And then he sneers. "Is that what you'd like me to say, Granger? Oh, please. You're much more pathetic than I thought."

That hurts, and I'm surprised it does. I've been so accustomed to Malfoy's jibes that I've grown two extra layers of skin to ward off the pain. But somehow, the simplest of his insults has sliced through those two thick layers and have drawn some blood.

And why is that so? I've suffered years and years of verbal abuse, beginning with Malfoy and ending with Ron. However, with Ron, it had been so much easier. After some time, I'd come to ignore him; I'd come to a point in my life when I'd realised that Ron's attacks hadn't been because of me, but stemmed from his own insecurities. He'd been so caught up in my academic and non-academic achievements that he'd grown to resent me. Thus, his recourse was to try to disparage me at every opportunity.

But with Malfoy, it seems as though, deep down, I am constantly trying to win his approval and am always failing miserably. No matter what I do or how I do it, ten times out of ten, he'll find something to criticise me on; something negative to point out that will make me feel awful. Like I'll never come up to par.

And I guess he's right. I _am_ pathetic. I really am, if all I want to do is impress him in some way…_any_ way.

I am just about ready to stand, to get up and leave _Fran's_ and Malfoy behind when Geoffrey comes along with his serving tray. With practiced hands, he arranges our plates and drinks accordingly, and when he's finished, he dips his head in acknowledgement, bids us to enjoy our meal, and then walks away. Burdened with the task to pay, I am forced to sit and stay put.

* * *

><p>Surprisingly, our hour's lunch-break is spent in semi-amiable conversation—a feat as amazing as the sun falling out of the sky. We manage to discuss non-controversial topics: the weather, travel, and even books (I am astonished that Malfoy actually reads). And although we work in some bickering and some insults here and there, the time spent together is a vast improvement from what we shared in Hogwarts. Malfoy even made me laugh.<p>

My hope to use Malfoy is revived, and as we walk back to work, I am confronted with the thought that now that I've fed him—after finding him and friend-ing him—it's time to move on to the big one: fuck him.

Merciful Merlin how is that even going to be possible?

Where do I begin to get him around to that idea?

Ask him? _Hey, Malfoy, how about we go to your place and have sex? Sounds like a plan?_

Tell him? _Malfoy, we're going to have sex._

Demand it of him? _Malfoy. Sex. Here. Now!_

No, no and no. So, what then?

Seduce him? But how? He'd only laugh at me when he finds out, because he will. I don't know—

My thoughts are cut short when Malfoy suddenly grabs my hand and leads me into a dark and narrow passageway we were just about to pass by. Before I can squawk out a protest, he forces me up against the dirty wall, pressing his body against mine. He flattens his palms on the wall on either sides of my head and our faces are mere centimetres apart. Our gazes are locked, unblinking, and because his mouth is so close to mine, I am sure he's just about ready to kiss me again.

So, obviously, I wait for it. _Anticipate_ it.

But he does no such thing. Instead, without breaking eye-contact, he lifts one hand and smoothes it along my cheek in a soft caress. Slowly, sweetly, he drags his fingers over my lips, down my chin, down my neck. Gently, his hands map a path all over the upper half of my body. He even fondles my breasts, and like the dolt that I am, instead of screaming profanities and pushing him away, I close my eyes and award him a tiny moan.

No, this is not like me at all. The true Hermione Granger would hex Malfoy into an indescribable mush for his forwardness. She would never allow Draco Malfoy—of all people—to take such outrageous liberties with her body. Never!

And yet, when he finally bends his head to kiss my neck and surrounding regions, I do nothing more than turn my head to accommodate him. Why should I prevent him? I want Draco Malfoy right here, up against this dirty wall where onlookers could easily see us. Vaguely, it comes to me that, right now, it would be so easy for me to carry out my fourth task of 'fucking him.'

But as soon as I think this, Malfoy pulls away from me. I open my eyes and find that strange look on his face again. I want to ask why he's looking at me like that, and just as I'm about to do so, he speaks up:

"Granger, I don't like to play games."

Immediately, I am angry at his accusation. "I'm not the one who's playing games, Malfoy! Who's the one who started this?"

But he continues on as though he hasn't heard me.

"And I especially don't like to play games in which I am losing."

And like the spoilsport he is, he Disapparates, leaving after having the last say.

* * *

><p>AN: Muchas gracias to my beta, nelpher! Tambien, Hermione es una muy la perra mala! Hehe. Yep, bad Spanish. Anywho, let me know what you thought about the update!<p> 


	4. She's Mental

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and/or the characters of the original story created by J.K. Rowling.

AN: Thanks, as usual to my lovely beta, nelpher. Awful sentence structures and wayward grammar errors shudder in your presence. Hehe!

_Chapter Four: She's Mental_

Thankfully, it is Saturday; therefore, I've no need to go to work. I putter about my tiny flat doing chores I've neglected to complete for the past week. When those are finished, I find extra work to do to occupy my time…and my mind; especially my mind, because if I don't, my thoughts inevitably return to Draco and the moments after our lunch on Friday.

That bloody wanker.

What did he mean by 'not liking to play games?' As far as I see it, he's the one who started this 'Feel-Me-Up' business in the first place! As a matter of fact, I am never the one to initiate those intimate touches. I've never even had my chance to touch him! And yet, that condescending bastard behaves as though _I'm_ at fault.

_I don't like to play games, especially when I'm losing._

Especially when he's losing? That line is entirely open to interpretations I'm unable to interpret. What could he be losing? His sanity, no doubt. One moment he's pawing at me or shoving his tongue down my throat, and the next moment he's insulting me or treating me coldly. There's no middle ground with him. Just loads of confusion.

Sorting through my closetful of clothing, I pick out bits that are unlikely to be worn again and stuff them into a large garbage bag. With such wonderful spring weather, I decide that a walk to the local Salvation Army would be an ideal way to take my mind off of gorgeous…no…obnoxious blond-haired prats whose touches had no right making my skin tingle.

I am just about to heft the bag over my shoulder when I hear a knock at my door. Puzzled as to the identity of my visitor—Lavender is at work, and Ginny went with Seamus to Ireland for the weekend—I make my way to the door, open it, and find Ron Weasley standing there with a bouquet of roses.

* * *

><p>After the War, Ron and I had dated for one year and had been engaged during the second one. For most of that time, I'd loved Ron, and to a certain extent, I believed he'd loved me too. But somewhere along the line, things had gone terribly, irreparably wrong, and there had been no salvaging our past friendship at the termination of our relationship.<p>

I think the beginning of the end started when I applied for university. After I'd returned and completed my studies at Hogwarts, I'd immediately owled my application to an affordable, respectable Wizarding university. Within days, I received an acceptance letter—no doubt its expedience based on the fact that I was a glorified 'War Heroine'—and feeling jubilant and accomplished, I'd rushed to share the news with Ron, only to receive an uncaring shrug.

"I don't see the need, 'Mione," he'd said. "Wasn't Hogwarts enough?"

"No, Ron, of course it isn't!" I'd argued. "My career depends on a proper—"

"It's always about you, isn't it?" he'd interrupted in tones of slight disgust. "You and _your_ career."

"Ron, don't be ridiculous," I'd snapped, equally surprised and irritated with his tone. "How can you say such a thing when this past year I've been supporting your efforts to get In with the Chudley Cannons? Not that there's been much progress on that front, anyway."

Even before the hurt had usurped his face, I'd regretted my words.

Sneering, he'd replied: "Well, at least I'm trying to do something with my life Instead of hiding away from the real world in school."

From there, a two-day row had begun, where we gave each other the cold shoulder. I was miffed and more than a little hurt that Ron had harboured the idea that I was using school as an excuse to hide from reality, and that I was selfishly thinking only of my career. And maybe the reason why it had stung so much was because he was partially right.

Nevertheless, we had made up on the third day of our silent treatment, and the day after, during dinner at a nice restaurant, Ron had proposed. Astonished by the sudden turn of events and mindful of the smiling onlookers, I'd stuttered out an acceptance. But that night, a tiny spark of doubt had lit inside me as to whether I should truly marry Ron.

The light crumbling of our relationship worsened into landslides when I began my schooling in the fall of 1999. I became swamped with coursework, and when I wasn't, I pretended to be too busy to make time for Ron. I'd begun to get scared of a future with him, especially when he made offhand comments about me not having to work when he was drafted by the Cannons, and me staying home to take care of the six children he was hoping to have...

When he was indeed drafted by the Chudley Cannons, I got downright terrified. He began to insinuate that I needn't continue my studies due to his growing wealth, and when I persisted in attending university, he became petulant and mean. Then, in the spring of 2000, after the frenzied talk of the ending of the world had died down amongst the Muggles, the final nail was hammered into the coffin that held our deteriorated relationship.

I'd just completed my final exams and had gone to Ron's—he was still living with his mum and dad—to celebrate my temporary freedom. Entering, as usual, through the kitchen door, I had headed directly towards the living room, knowing he'd be upstairs in his room. In hindsight, the loud moaning and grunting should have tipped me off that something was amiss, but for some reason those sounds had not reached my ears until later.

However, the sight of Ron's naked freckled arse moving up and down between a pair of slim, toned thighs had been fairly hard to miss. Their moans and groans of their lewd act on poor Mrs. Weasley's floral sofa had then decided to make themselves heard. Loudly.

My immediate surprise had vanished in the dawning of my fury, and so, without thinking before acting, I had picked up the closest thing to hand—a conveniently hefty ceramic ornament of a cherubic angel uplifting its arms in a silent plea—and had flung it in the direction of the moving bodies. It had connected with a satisfying thump at the back of Ron's spotty neck.

"_Ow! Fuck!_" he'd cried, spinning his head around to find me foaming at the mouth. The look on his face at the sight of me was one to remember: caught, astounded, scared...

From there, the memories dissolve into enforced blurriness. The pain of Ron's cheating had felt like a sucker-punch to the gut, and to endure it, I had forced myself to forget. To have erased my memories or cap them magically would have worsened the situation. Indeed, I wanted to forget, but I also wanted to remember the lesson he'd taught me so painfully: how giving away your heart freely had destructive and irremediable consequences.

And although that hurtful episode occurred years ago, I can't quite help the ache in my heart at the sight of Ron Weasley now.

"What do you want?" I ask coldly.

He attempts a half-smile. "'Mione, can't I come inside?"

I fold my arms beneath my breasts and look at him coolly. "My name is Hermione, and no you can't come inside. I'm going out."

"Why do you always…" He huffs out a breath. "Look, I've been trying to owl you since...well...since you left, but all my messages kept being blocked. And since you moved away, I didn't know where you were living, and neither Harry nor Ginny would tell me either."

I scowl. "So how did you find me?"

He blushes. "Err...never you mind that. Here." He shoves the flowers into my face.

Reluctantly, I take the flowers, feeling like if I've betrayed some part of myself for accepting his absurdly late gift of apology.

"So, won't you let me come in?"

"I said no, Ron. I'm going out. I was just about to leave when you knocked."

He eyes my tattered shorts and my holey blue shirt with the burnt mark just below the navel.

"Where are you going?"

Anger swells and explodes within me. How dare he question me? That cheating arsehole! He has no right asking such personal questions. I have a good mind to tell him to sod off and take his bloody roses and shove them where the sun doesn't shine and where grass doesn't grow. I'm already gearing up to tell him just that when a better idea strikes me.

"I'm going on a date. With someone I work with. _A man_."

And, because his look of disbelief is so provoking, I can't help myself by adding:

"With Draco Malfoy."

And, because Fate is a twisted little witch—give or take a letter; preferably the letter 'b'—whom should I see stepping out of the flat right across from mine but that blond-haired devil himself. If I've never believed in divine intervention or miracles before, I believe in them now. Or maybe that git has charmed his name so that when spoken, he'll suddenly appear.

"Hello, Weasel. Still as ugly as ever I see."

* * *

><p>"<em>Malfoy<em>?" Ron spits in disgust. "You're with _Malfoy_?*

It is a glorious, heady feeling to watch hate, jealousy, disgust and shock roil within the depths of Ron's eyes. To watch his mouth agape as he stares between Malfoy and I, looking as though he's been horribly betrayed. And I relish it; so much in fact that I regret not thinking to employ this retaliation a lot sooner.

Deciding to up the ante in this game, I drop Ron's flowers to the floor, reach out and tug Malfoy's hand, an adoring smile aimed up at him. He complies, coming forwards and into my flat's entrance. Grateful that he is playing along, I smile even wider, going even further by lifting my hand to lightly caress his jaw. Beneath the pads of my fingers, I can feel the short hairs of his beard's shadow, and it sends tiny delicious jolts through my fingertips.

"Hi darling," I say sweetly.

Brazenly, he encloses his arms around my waist and hugs me to him, and my heartbeat begins to pick up speed. With my breasts squashed up against his chest, I'm sure he can feel the heavy thud-thud of my heart. And when he smiles, a disarmingly genuine lifting of the comers of his lips, baring straight white teeth, I'm just about ready to turn into goo.

"Hey babe. Miss me?" he says in husky tones.

I'm hopelessly, _hopelessly_ attracted to Draco Malfoy.

"Get your bloody paws off her, ferret!" demands Ron, spittle flying as he lifts his hands and shoves Malfoy away.

And, in a blink of an eye, Draco's charming smile dissolves into the nastiest scowl I've yet to see. He whips out his wand and so does Ron, and because I can feel the potency of the magical energy brewing, I step between the two of them, arms extended to keep them at a safe distance from each other.

"Draco, stop. Ron, _leave_," I command.

"What?" Ron snarls. "Ferret can stay but I can't?"

"Yes, that's right," I say.

He sneers. "I can't believe you're fucking _Malfoy_. Merlin, 'Mione, you're a lot worse off than I was that time. You're _actually_ spreading your legs for that—"

I turn fully to face Ron, fold my fingers into a tight fist, lift my arm and rear it back as far as it can go, and then release it with every single bit of my strength. My fist connects with his face in a loud, sickening thump-crunch, and his entire body spins away to the side like a spinning-top that's been knocked off-course, landing roughly on the hallway carpet.

Pain rockets from my knuckles and fans out across the flat of my hand. I am fairly sure a bone or two is broken but my apoplexy is so all-consuming, I ignore the thought. Instead, my heart swells with the intense need to hurt Ron. To hurt him so badly he'll never, _ever_ recover from the pain. Wounding him physically alone will not suffice. I want permanent, soul-wrecking damage.

I am breathing heavily, holding my aching right hand with the left. An odd sort of ringing is sounding in my ears, and my chest, neck and face feels hot.

"Get out." The frosty tone is so foreign to my ears that I'm inwardly amazed that it's my own voice.

He whines from where he his lying on the floor. "You bitch! You broke my nose, you stupid—"

The scream that rips from my throat is so sudden, it even surprises me. All of my anger, hurt and frustration is invested in that scream. The rage and the disbelief that I once loved this boy—this man—and that in the end, it had all been for naught. That he is so callous, so selfish, that after breaking my heart into pieces so miniscule they could be categorised as glitter, he's only just come to apologise for his misdeeds _three years_ late, then has the audacity to judge me.

"Get out!" I scream incessantly, uncaring that three of my four neighbours have their doors open and are peeking out at me, uncaring that Draco Malfoy is right behind me and is bearing witness to this humiliating incident, uncaring that Ron has already scampered off after calling me 'bloody insane,' and that I'm screaming at the dirty grey carpet.

And when I become too hoarse to scream anymore, I feel my body sag, my energy thoroughly depleted. However, I'm held up by strong arms wrapped around my midsection.

_Draco._

He kicks the door shut, blocking inquisitive eyes from this crazy-woman show. Still encasing me in his arms, he turns me around to face him but I can't. I just can't.

"Hermione."

And because he's spoken it so softly, so kindly, so _pityingly_, I press my face into his shirt and begin to cry.

* * *

><p>AN: Here you go my lovelies! And even though I'm aware that the Hermione-catches-Ron-cheating bit is thoroughly overdone in fanfic, it was the perfect explanation for Hermione's negative perception of love. Anywhat, hope you liked the update. Tell me what you think! :)<p> 


	5. Shameless

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and/or the characters of the original story created by J.K. Rowling.

AN: As usual, hearty thanks to nelpher and lwalters5 for a job well done. What would this story LOOK like without you? -:wide-eyed in horror at the thought:-

_Chapter Five: Shameless_

Monday morning, I hustle into work thirty minutes late, hoping against hope that no-one—especially Peter—has noticed my absence as yet. Alas, it is not to be.

"Granger, you're late," says Peter gruffly, arms folded and beady eyes freezing me just as I'm about to sit in my ratty chair.

_Shit._

Although Peter Mosley is generally an affable bloke, albeit extremely perverted and forward, and encourages a convivial working atmosphere, if there's one thing he despises—even above the buxom Layla from Accounting's sudden decision to dress less provocatively and wear too-large blouses and calf-length skirts—it's lateness.

Punctuality is his religion and a timepiece the god he worships. He even has one of those no-longer-made German watches that date back to the nineteenth-century. It's an heirloom that once belonged to his great, great grandfather. The heavy chain it's attached to, the encasing with the little cover and the tiny digits that make up the face are made of pure gold, and he never ceases to boast with a smug little smile on his face about how much the bloody thing is worth.

And just like any other religious fanatic, he quotes annoying little phrases like 'time waits for no man' and 'time is of the essence,' and his favourite: 'time is money.' He retells the same old story of that time eons ago when his friend John Glasgow and him had been lined up for the same journalism job, and he'd got the position because he'd been fifteen minutes early.

He usually neglects the well-known fact that the journalism job had actually been for his uncle's newspaper. This omission was understandable, considering that the valuable lesson he meant to impart about punctuality was rather unrelated to the less exciting parable about the virtues of nepotism.

He also has this insane method of dealing with us poor tardy souls who can't seem to set ourselves in tune with his glorified pocket-watch. It is this: for every minute you are late, he doubles it and demands you stay back for the total amount. For instance, because I'm late thirty minutes today…

"One hour, Granger," he says, looking pleased that he has caught me in the act. "Don't go punching your wand out until five. I'll be checking tomorrow."

Grudgingly, I answer: "Yes, Mr. Mosley."

I take my seat, glaring at the golden watch in his hand. Wendy always says that one day she'll steal the bloody thing and hack it into pieces with her father's axe, and I cannot help but envision doing the same. Tattle-tale watches have no place in this world.

"Time is money, Granger," he adds in preachy tones. "Time is a wise tutor, too. You should learn to value it. You may be young now," he accentuates this statement with a leer at my chest, "yes, young and perky…_nubile_…but you'll come to an age when you'll look back on today and thank me."

_Thank you for having me to stay back an extra hour after work? No, I think not, you lecherous git!_

"Of course, sir," I nod.

"Anyway, it's no use unpacking now," he says as I begin to rummage through my bag. "I've got a job for you to do."

"What kind of job?" I ask suspiciously. I swear to Merlin if he wants me to look after that odious little cretin he calls a _dog_ one more time, I'll—

"One that I hope you'll do me proud," he answers. "There's a new store opening in Lower Hogsmeade: 'The Naughty Wand.' I want you to do an interview with the store owner. Her name's Julia and she's a good friend of mine. Just want to give her some start-up publicity, y'know? Anyway, it's best you get on it straightaway."

I launch to my feet, a big grin on my face at this fantastic opportunity. Peter Mosley may be anal retentive when it comes to timekeeping, but he certainly knows how to make up for it! I won't mind staying back an hour after work if I'm to write a piece that will be on the first page right after the table of contents, because that's exactly where it'll be if it's a publicity piece.

"Absolutely, Mr. Mosley!" I say with honest enthusiasm. This is my chance! The window of opportunity has finally opened for me to be respected as a journalist in this magazine, and I am going to leap through it without a second thought. Nothing is going to stop me now! No obstacles will be getting in my way—

"Malfoy, you're late!"

_Fuck!_

"My apologies, Mr. Mosley," speaks the person whose face has been populating my thoughts the entire weekend. "My bed whispered lovely nothings into my ear, so I couldn't resist staying in a little longer."

Peter frowns at him. "Well, maybe the hour you'll be staying back with Granger will teach you to resist your bed's siren song from now on, then?"

Malfoy nods, a serious expression on his face that I know is entirely fake. "Let's hope, sir. Let's hope."

"Well!" I say extra brightly, grabbing up my bag and trying my best to avoid Malfoy's gaze. "It's time I get going, wouldn't you say, Mr. Mosley? Don't want to be late. After all, time is money!"

Peter nods, and then says the one thing I've been fearing he would say: "Take Malfoy with you. Since he's learning the way of things—"

"Oh, but sir, I'm not sure there is anything very educational in an interview!" I interject.

They both look at me as though I've lost my marbles and my common sense as well. I could feel the heat blooming in my cheeks. So much for no obstacles getting in my way. Now I have to suffer the greatest obstacle of all: distraction. And that distraction is Draco Malfoy as he occupies my mind and makes a complete mush of my intelligence.

* * *

><p>Because Lower Hogsmeade is not too far away from where Bewitched is located, Malfoy and I opt to walk the short distance to The Naughty Wand. The Naughty Wand? That really is an odd name. What kind of store is it? Peter had been vague, saying that it sold useful knick-knacks before shooing us out the building. I don't mind the lack of beforehand info, though. I'll see what Julia sells when I get there anyway, and write a fabulous article all about it!<p>

_If I can concentrate on what Julia is saying, that is._

I cast a surreptitious glance at Malfoy, silently admiring how attractive he's become over the years. I cannot help staring until he glances at me, catching me in the act. Blushing for the umpteenth time today—I've really got to learn to control this constant blood flow to my face—I look away immediately.

"Granger, your face looks like a tomato," he taunts. "All fat and red."

"Get stuffed, Malfoy," I reply meanly.

He leers at me. "I'd rather be doing the stuffing, thanks."

"God, Malfoy, you're so _disgusting_!" I explode. "You make me sick."

"You certainly didn't think so on Saturday, did you, Granger?"

I'm scowling now, furious with him for remembering my blubbering behaviour on Saturday after Ron had made his disgraceful departure, and with myself for allowing him to see it. After I'd deposited all of my runny snot and tears on his good shirt, he'd given me this strange look—which my memory had later transfigured into a 'disgusted look'—before bidding me a good night, and leaving me in my flat to wallow in mortification.

There's no chance to respond—which I'm grateful for as I had no decent response anyway—because a small crowd of people are gathered outside a shop front. Most of them are talking excitedly while the remaining few have expressions of utter disgust on their faces. Glancing at the hanging sign post from the eaves of the shop, I read 'The Naughty Wand' in cursive type.

"What is this world coming to?" says an elderly woman, her cheeks pink as she shakes her head in disdain.

"Jenny, don't be such a prude!" laughs a young woman as she tugs on a red-faced blonde girl. "I'm sure Mark will like it!"

Intrigued, I push my way to the front of the crowd until The Naughty Wand's display window is in sight. And what a sight it is. There is just no possible way one can ignore such a view, because on four little, circular, white tables stand oblong-shaped devices in varying colours and…_sizes_…and bearing an incredible resemblance to a man's—

"Penis!" cries a little boy, pointing with gleeful interest at the window. Horrified, his mother covers his eyes and drags him away with an unnatural speed even as he continues to scream: "Penis! Mummy, it's a penis! A peeennniiiss!"

Still gaping—why aren't those windows covered?—I can hear Malfoy chuckling behind me.

"Now _this_ is going to be fun."

* * *

><p>"So, Julia…" I peter off when my eye inadvertently lands on one of the teal, 'jumbo-sized' dildo lying innocently in its unopened package on Julia's desk.<p>

We are currently in her office conducting the interview, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot phrase my questions properly without glancing at the thing and thinking, 'how can that even _fit_?' Granted, I consider myself completely comfortable with my sexuality, and I _have_ been in and purchased things at Muggle sex stores before, but I just can't help being astounded by the _size_ of that thing…

Julia follows my gaze with a smile, tapping her finger on the cardboard edge of the packaging.

"The Muff Stuffer," says she in easy tones. How one can say 'The Muff Stuffer' without breaking out into insane fits of giggling is beyond me. Even now I can feel a laugh bubbling at the surface of my oesophagus. "It's a big hit with the women in Muggle London."

From beside me in the other chair, Draco snorts, reminding me why this entire situation is so embarrassing. I cannot believe I'm in a sex store with _Malfoy_. Yes, I have big plans to 'have a roll in the hay' with him, but facing the instruments of sex with him mere centimetres away is quite an experience.

"Is that right?" I say in a high, squeaky note. "In any case, Julia, as I was going to ask: in this…err…_venture_, who are your target customers?"

"Oh, everyone!" says Julia gaily. "As you've seen, we've a wide range of products, from magical vibrators for women to vaginal-simulators for men. There's also the charmed butt-plugs and cock-rings and nipple-squeezers and pussy-wands and—"

"So, a _very_ extensive assortment then?" I cut in, my voice still a bit too high.

Malfoy chuckles and my face gets even hotter.

"Yes, very," she nods, smiling serenely. "But the 'couple's play' products are the bestsellers. Especially 'The Orb.'"

"The Orb?" I repeat.

She gives a short nod as she stands and walks over to one of the many boxes littering her office. After a moment of searching, she produces a palm-sized crystal sphere that glitters prettily when it catches the strips of sunlight shining through Julia's office window.

"It's a sexual chemistry detector," she explains, tapping her wand to it and whispering, "_Fornicus_." It blooms a soft blue in her palm, and she looks at me first, then at Malfoy. "Here, tap your wand to it and say: _Fornicus_."

Fascinated now, I watch as he taps his wand obediently to the sphere and whispers the required incantation. The soft blue suddenly deepens to navy, and Julia laughs and says:

"Aw, what a shame. And I'd been so hopeful!" She winks salaciously at Malfoy before turning to me. "The Orb, as I said before, is a sexual chemistry detector. In other words, it detects whether or not you and another person would have mind-blowing sex by its hues. Heavy blues means absolutely not, greens mean so-so, and reds means prepare to pass out from the intensity of your orgasms."

"Wow!" I exclaim.

"No doubt, it'll always stay blue on your end, eh, Granger?" pipes up Malfoy with a smirk.

I glare at him. "Only if I use it with you, ferret."

Then a mischievous look overtakes Julia's face. "Why don't we test it, then? Here, take it," she shoves the sphere into my hand. I almost drop it, but manage to catch it in time. "Go on. Tap your wand to it and say the incantation."

I'm just about to protest when I catch sight of Malfoy's smug look. I can easily read his thoughts. He thinks I'm gutless and will not rise to this challenge. That I'm some stuffy little prude who blushes at the sight of gigantic dildos and words like 'Muff Stuffer.' Well, he has another thing coming to him. After all, I _am_ the girl who has devious intentions of sleeping with him and then forgetting all about the experience. I never back down from a challenge.

Whipping out my wand, I tap it against the sphere, mutter the incantation, and then hold the sphere out for him to do the same with a smug smile on my face as well. His smile is gone now as he stares at me for a long while. There is a tense silence in the room, and my confidence begins to waver under his serious gaze, when he suddenly eases forwards, taps his wand to the sphere, and says the incantation.

Within milliseconds the Orb brightens to such a glaring red I can actually feel it becoming warm within my palm. My face attempting to outmatch the colour of the Orb, I hastily place it on Julia's desk as she cackles like a madwoman. I don't even _dare_ look at Malfoy.

"Well," says Julia in animated tones, "what a surprise! You two are obviously wasting time! Best get on with as soon as possible, yeah?"

* * *

><p>When we return to our workplace, I head straight to my desk, determined to write a dazzling piece on The Naughty Wand. My fingers flying crazily over the keyboard—committing both various typographical errors and continuous pressing of the backspace button—l pointedly ignore Malfoy, and he does the same to me. We stay like this for the duration of the work day.<p>

High sexual chemistry, eh? It half surprises me and half doesn't. Our relationship is akin to one you might find in those cheap, amateur-written 'romcom' books; where you have the brooding, handsome-as-hell male and the bookish, beautiful-but-doesn't-know-it female who bicker with each other constantly despite the undercurrent of unresolved sexual tension between them. Then, along the way, the author conveniently puts them in some helpless position where they finally have a good shag and confess their love for each other.

Well, thank God for small mercies: my life, although similar, is not some romance-comedy novella. And, while I _do_ plan to have a good shag with Malfoy, there certainly won't be any ridiculous love confessions afterwards. Because, in spite of it all, I have no belief in love. Not anymore.

_But you are attracted to Malfoy, though. Who's to say what you'll feel afterwards? From attraction grows love…_

_No_. The only thing l should be feeling is an idyllic depletion of energy, if the Orb's prediction is correct.

Soon enough, the day is over, and by five-fifteen, almost everyone on our floor has left. The only remainders are yours truly, Malfoy, Ned Flanders secluded in his office, and Phillip Jules from the Entertainment section, who is pretending to work but is actually watching pornography—I know this because if I squint, l can make out a woman's naked breast in the reflection of his glasses.

_Ugh_. No wonder he is such fantastic friends with Peter Mosley.

Proud of my work so far—Merlin! Did I really take over _six hours_ to write eight hundred words?—I get up and head to the kitchen. I have just closed the refrigerator door after retrieving my bottle of apple juice when I'm suddenly shoved forwards rudely against the cool front of the refrigerator. In my shock, my bottle of apple juice falls from my hand to the floor with a noisy clatter.

Before I can crane my neck to see who this outrageous person is, my body is forcefully turned around so that I am face to face with none other than—

"Thirsty?" is all Malfoy says before he ducks his head and kisses me fiercely.

Any spark of fight I had had initially fades into non-existence. Within a few seconds, my wanton self is kissing him back with a fervour to match his own. Wrapping my hands around his neck, I lift myself up on tip-toes to press my body desperately against his, determined to feel every hard, warm inch of him.

Dropping his hands to my thighs, he shoves my slim skirt up to bunch around my hips, then hoists my legs up to wrap around his hips. I gasp in surprise at the bulge pressing intimately between my legs, amazed by the ready firmness when I suddenly realise it's his…belt buckle.

I cannot help myself; I begin to giggle.

He pulls away and frowns at me. "What?"

I giggle some more. "I thought…I thought…" I rotate my hips against his for emphasis. "But it's actually your belt buckle."

His frown dissolves and in its place is his tell-tale smirk. "How insulting. I'm a lot larger than that, Granger. You'll soon find out."

He cuts off my sarcastic rejoinder with another kiss, and at the touch of his tongue against mine, I've completely forgotten about his annoying overconfidence. His hands run once, twice along my waistline before he smoothes them beneath my shirt to touch my bare skin. His palms are cool, and as they quest upwards to my breasts, they leave a memory of goose bumps on my flesh.

_Oh, Merlin, we're actually going to do this, _I think._ We're going to have sex up against a refrigerator in a kitchen where anyone can see or hear us!_

I have just entered the realms of I-don't-give-a-damn, and Malfoy's hands have already begun a delicious squeezing of my breasts, and his lips have already moved on to better territory at my neck when I hear a harsh choke-gasp sound from behind Malfoy's back.

My eyes fly open—when did I close them?—to meet the wide-eyed gaze of Ned Flanders. There's a short instance when all three of us are frozen into place, and in that moment, I am mentally separated from my body. As plain as printing paper, I can see how obscene this must look from Ned's point of view, especially with my legs wrapped so conspicuously around Draco's hips. How can he know that Draco's zip isn't pulled down (yet) and that we haven't got to the 'good part' (yet)?

I unfreeze first. "Ned! It's not what it looks like!" I relinquish my hold on Malfoy's neck and hips, and rearrange my clothing as best as I can. "See? We weren't…we didn't have sex!"

"_Yet_," Malfoy adds unhelpfully. "Besides, what are you doing here, speccy? Blind people shouldn't take up voyeurism as a pastime. It's a waste of time."

Ned's pink face darkens into an unflattering puce. His mouth opens and shuts twice, apparently with all intents and purposes to have a smart, biting comeback for Malfoy, but his stammering fells him. So, foregoing the insult, he directs a disgusted look our way instead before he turns around and leaves the kitchen with solid and dignified steps.

My shoulders slump in embarrassment.

Hermione Granger, thou art a shameless trollop.

* * *

><p>AN: Don't worry Hermione! Celebrate your inner sluttiness! ...Ahem.<p>

What say you? :)


	6. Loser, Loser, Double Loser

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and/or the characters of the original story created by J.K. Rowling._  
><em>

AN: I'm beginning to run out of creative ways to say thanks to my beta. Thus: thank you, nelpher, for being awesome, and for providing such a giggle-worthy line: _"...privates dangling over the countryside..." _Hee! :)

_Chapter Six: Loser, Loser, Double Loser  
><em>

"As I'm sure you're all aware, next Monday will be the first of May—May Day—thus, on Saturday, I am pleased to announce that the staff of Bewitched will be conducting their very own May Day festivities!"

Silence.

We all stare mutely at Petunia Palmer—dubbed Perky Petty, and rightly so. If there is anyone who can see the bright side to anything, it's Petunia. Her perpetual optimism is so amazing that instead of being annoyed, one can only stare at her in silent and wide-eyed wonder.

Assistant to the head of Human Resources, Petunia is determined to ensure workplace harmony and safety. She does most (if not all) of the grunt work, whilst her boss, Terry Holiday, lazes his days away in his office. She has the energy of a roadrunner and the multitasking ability of a person with eight hands. And despite her slavish hours of work, her ungrateful boss, and the tendency of a few of the staff to take advantage of her people-pleasing inclinations, she still remains vibrant and upbeat,

"Come on!" she cheers, clapping her hands together to stir up enthusiasm. "It'll be fun, everybody! It's all in an effort to promote teamwork. I've already organised everything. I just need signed agreement of participation right here!" She produces a clipboard and points at the rows of blank slots waiting to be filled with reluctant signatures.

"No can do! I've a date!"

"Sorry, Petunia, it's my son's Quidditch match that day."

"But I've already paid fifty galleons for my naked sky diving lessons!"

"Hey! Which one of you wankers ate my tuna sandwich?"

However, despite Petunia's seemingly sweet exterior, there is a side of her that isn't oft seen, but when it rears its head one is forced to stare, yet again, in silent and wide-eyed amazement. Maybe she suffers from some mental disorder, maybe the tiny thread that holds her sanity intact sometimes frays itself thin from stress, but what I do know is that Petunia is a modern day Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Various negative outcries and blatant lies can be heard before—

Crack!

Petunia slams the clipboard down on Meredith's desk, causing the poor woman to jump back in her seat in shock.

"Silence!"

Her face contorted in a horrific mask of fury, Petunia glares about the room.

Dumbstruck silence.

"Good," she breathes deep before reaffixing a cheery smile on her face. "Now, Carolyn, I'm sorry, you'll have to cancel your date as I have you down for the drinks station. Is that alright?"

"Er…sure…"

"Olson, you do not have a son, you have daughter. I've put you down with Barry and Winston for the choir. Sounds good?"

"I-I suppose…"

"Matthew, I'm sure the Wizarding community will thank me for preventing them from suffering the sight of your privates dangling over the countryside. You'll be with Jennifer on the games station. Perfect?"

"O-of course!"

"And Phillip, it was I who threw away your tuna sandwich. It had begun to smell. Is there a problem?"

"Er…'course not, Petty, dear!"

There's a marked tension in the room as everyone stares unblinkingly at Petunia as she scribbles away on her clipboard. Even I, who have faced Voldemort and Death Eaters, am a bit terrified. Draco is the only one who appears mildly amused.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"What say you about being the May Queen7"

"Absolutely!"

"Great!" exclaims Petunia, grinning now. "Thanks for your willing cooperation, everybody! Remember to come and sign by the end of the day! I'll be waiting."

* * *

><p>"Got to appreciate the irony, eh, Granger?"<p>

This is Malfoy as he leans his forearms on the top of my cubicle wall.

I exhale resignedly, forced to look away from the red, suede Christian Louboutin stilettos on my laptop screen.

"Why, Malfoy?"

"Well, the chosen May Queen is supposed to be _at least_ marginally attractive. And, well…you know…" he trails off and gives me a disdainful once-over.

In bored tones, I respond: "Malfoy, your insults on my attractiveness are as tired and redundant as your smirks. Besides," I adopt a smug smile, "I didn't hear you complaining yesterday in the kitchen."

He fakes a long-suffering sigh. "Desperate times, desperate measures."

My smugness dissolves into ire. "That's a load of shite, Malfoy."

"Granger, your colourful language never ceases to amaze me. Typical of one with your kind of upbringing, I suppose. You really need to get your mouth cleansed. No need to let the world know about your shameful origins."

"And you really need to get your brain checked, because a few of your screws are missing!" I retaliate. "It can only explain your absurd behaviour of late."

"No, no. Credit any uncharacteristic actions on my part to yourself, Granger. There's something incredibly toxic about you. When one is in your presence, one tends to lower one's self in inexplicable ways. Must be your demon hair at work…"

"Likewise, Malfoy!" I reply hotly, properly riled now. "Because I don't know why I'd ever…I'd ever…"

"Why you'd ever, what?"

_Kiss you. Hold you. Want you._

The swiftness in which these words unearth themselves from the depths of my mind, and the silent agreement and acceptance of them disturbs me. I want to kiss Malfoy, I want to hold Malfoy, I want to want Malfoy. And, sometimes, it seems as though he wants the same things too, but I can never be quite sure. Especially in moments like these when he sets out to be unfriendly and irritating.

"Malfoy, why do you do this?" I say, determined to unbalance him as he has done me.

"You'll have to be clearer, Granger. Yes, I know: it probably surprises you that someone as impressive and as skilled as I cannot read minds."

I am tempted to add my two sarcasm-laced Knuts on that statement, but I opt to overlook it.

"Why is it that one moment you're trying to see how far down my throat your tongue can go, and the next, you're insulting me? You say you don't like playing games, yet you're the one horsing around!"

He sneers. "I don't like playing games, but I hate losing even worse. I'm not the one who started this Granger, and I intend to win."

"'Started this?' What do you mean by that? I haven't started anything!"

He leans further over the cubicle wall, bringing his face closer to mine. "Is that so? Then explain to me what your article is all about, Granger? The one about finding and fucking and whatever?"

I stare at him in open-mouthed shock before I fight to reply hastily: "My article isn't about you. It's about…umm…someone else!"

He straightens to stare down superciliously at me. "Granger, your lying is as awful as your wardrobe. Not to mention I was standing right behind you when you typed my name into your article. Still maintaining that you're not playing games, princess?"

I am speechless.

"I thought so."

He turns away from my cubicle and heads off to his own desk.

* * *

><p>I don't see much of Malfoy for the remainder of the week—which is just fine by me because I don't want to face him either. I don't know why, but I feel mortified that he has learnt of my intentions. Part of me has even begun to feel that all those intimate moments between us had been a ruse. That it had all been a pretence on Malfoy's part because, to him, it was a 'game' he 'intended to win.'<p>

And this disappoints me.

And it disappoints me that it disappoints me, because why _should_ I feel disappointed? How could I have been so naïve to have believed that Malfoy could ever be genuinely interested in me? That he'd want me? I should have been suspicious from the word go. Alas, my attraction for him had blinded me; had warped my usual perceptiveness. And I suppose my horniness had played a part too.

As usual, it had all been some sort of amusing pastime for that git. If his ultimate goal had been to see how many of my buttons he could push and how well he could mess with my mind, then he'd already succeeded in that regard. He'd already won. And this irks me to no end, because I have lost without even knowing I'd been playing in the first place.

But, I suppose what irritates me even more is that, despite knowing Malfoy's advances hadn't been borne of real attraction for me, a part of me still believes that it hadn't been all an act.

* * *

><p>On Saturday, Bewitched's May Day festivities are held in Hogsmeade Park. It's an especially dull affair as the sky is overcast and filled with fat, ominous-looking clouds, and there's a bite to wind that discourages gaiety. Even though we were encouraged to bring along family, hardly anyone follows through on that suggestion, and so, there are only a smattering of people in attendance.<p>

A few elderly passers-by survey Olson, Barry and Winston with mild interest as they sing in fairly off-key notes, a gang of adolescent boys laugh uproariously at Phillip and Ned's cringe-worthy attempt at Morris dancing, and a pair of audacious girls wander by, sneering as they commented, "Aren't you a bit old to be the May Queen?"

By one in the afternoon, despite Petunia's best efforts to inspire enthusiasm, we call it quits. I am aiding in the packing away of things, when I catch sight of Malfoy looking very chummy with Petunia. They are standing close and laughing about something, and, for no good reason, this annoys me immensely. My concentration occupied with glaring daggers at Malfoy, the cry of "Hermione, get out of the way!" comes far too late.

I turn my head in the direction of the call, and have only begun to say, "Wha—" when something hard connects painfully with my left temple.

I immediately fall to unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>When I'm next awake, I am surprised to find myself in my own bed.<p>

There's a dull ache at my left temple, and when I touch it, there's a soft lump there that I hope will disappear very soon, purely for vain reasons. Climbing out of my bed, I realise I'm no longer dressed in my white May Queen's dress, but only my prized pink shirt with the picture of a smirking Garfield on its front, and my knickers.

Not only has someone taken the liberty to bring me home, but they have undressed and redressed me as well. But who can it be? Nobody has access to my flat…well except Lavender and Ginny, as they are the only ones who know where I hide my spare key…

But once again, it is Saturday, and Lavender will be at work. Ginny, too.

So, who—

The unmistakable sound of someone rattling around in my kitchen is heard, followed by the sound of an expletive. The voice is male.

I stiffen with trepidation. Who is this intruder? Is he the one who brazenly undressed me? What is he doing in my kitchen? Has he intentions of hurting me? The sound of more things falling and more swearwords uttered is heard, and, my heart beginning to race, I pick up the closest thing to hand: my bottle of body cream.

Surely, the weightiness would serve as an effective clobbering instrument…

Advancing with great stealth, I sidle past my open bedroom door and peer cautiously around the corner into my kitchen area. My lower cupboards are all wide open, and there's some bloke shoulder deep inside one, scrounging around for Merlin knows what. Seeing an opportunity, I scuttle over, wield the cream bottle high over my head, and with a shriek of "Heee-yah!" I bring the bottle down hard on the intruder's back.

The reaction is as expected. Surprised by my sneak attack, the intruder's body is jerked upwards and he smacks his head up against the roof of my cupboard.

"_Fuck!_"

I continue hitting him as hard as I can with the bottle. At one point, it occurs to me that I am a skilled witch and that, instead of a useless bottle of cream, I should've tried looking for my wand. But it's too far gone now; there's no stopping. I need to injure this intruder significantly—although, there doesn't seem to be much injury occurring except the bottle spewing its fragrant contents.

"Get." Whack! "Out!" Whack! "You." Whack! "Bastard!"

"_Ow_…Granger…_shit_…stop it! Granger! _Stop_!"

Wait. That voice.

I pause mid-whack. "Malfoy?"

"Yes, it's me, you twit!" he says angrily as he pulls himself out of the cupboard and sits glaring up at me from my kitchen floor.

"Why are you in my flat?" I demand.

"Because I brought you home, you ungrateful wench. Though I'm starting to wish I'd left you to rot."

"Oh…oh! Someone hit me!"

"Not someone, _something_. A plate, to be more specific. And yet," he pushes himself to his feet, towering over me easily, "instead of receiving the thanks I deserve for wasting my time and energy lugging you all the way here and healing you, I get abused."

And then, he runs his gaze over me and I suddenly realise that I'm only in a shirt and a plain pair of cotton knickers.

Smirking, he continues: "Unless, of course, you have some other form of appreciation in mind, Granger?"

"Absolutely not!" I reply huffily. "You are the one who undressed me—"

He steps forwards. "And I can do it again. _Will_ do it again."

I step backwards. "Stay away from me, Malfoy! I'm sick and tired of this. You need to stop it. You've won, Malfoy! You've won!"

A tense quiet follows where we stare each other down. We don't move, we don't blink, we don't make a sound. I'm even sure that time has stopped, that we have somehow managed to freeze ourselves with the intensity of our emotions.

His face is a mask of seriousness. There's not a hint of a smile or lifted eyebrow. He's just staring at me with unnerving directness. His hands are free at his sides, and there's a bit of cream splattered along the side of his neck and the shoulders of his dark-green shirt. There's a strong urge to go to him. To reach my hands up and smooth the cream into his skin. To press myself close and relish his scent.

Then he says quietly: "Not yet. I haven't won just yet. But I'd like to believe I'm close."

"Awfully confident, aren't we? What if you _don't_ win?"

"Then, I suppose I'll just have to keep trying until I do."

* * *

><p>AN: Tsk, tsk. Draco, sore losers are <em>très<em> unattractive.


	7. Point Provers

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and/or the characters of the original story created by J.K. Rowling.

**AN:** And so, I'd like to say _muchas gracias_ in 72-point font size to **Seyfert**. You are one fricking _awesome_ cheerleader, darling! I dedicate this chapter to you, because of your wonderful encouragement and guiding hand. And for that last line at the end. Hee! :)

_Chapter Seven: Point Provers_

"Granger!"

It is Wednesday afternoon, and because I'd gorged on a large chicken sandwich at lunch, I've been waging an epic one-woman war against sleep and losing spectacularly. Thus, when Peter Mosley practically bullhorns my name, my drooping eyelids fly open, and I launch myself to my feet, sending my chair clattering backwards against my cubicle wall.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Mosley, sir!" I say.

"Aye, aye, cap'n!" teases Phillip, and the rest of the office snigger.

"C'mere," responds Mr. Mosley from his doorway, and trying not to blush because of my earlier overzealousness, I make my way to his office with squared shoulders until, "and you, too, Malfoy!"

Like a nutcracker soldier whose key has exhausted its wind-up, I stop walking.

Ever since the May Day picnic, I've been avoiding Malfoy, and have been successful thus far. The less I'm in his presence the less opportunity he has to 'win' at whatever goal he's set out to achieve concerning me. Alas, some divine hand has begun to meddle yet again.

I feel a pair of hands clamp onto my upper-arms and begin to walk me forwards.

"Come on, Granger," says Malfoy, "we don't want to keep the boss waiting."

"Let me go, Malfoy!"

Of course, he doesn't.

"Gods, why don't those two just shag already?" whispers Meredith to Phillip as we pass by.

Phillip snorts. "_Please_. The day Granger spreads her legs for—"

Even I am surprised by my swiftness when I unearth my wand and hex Phillip with a _Suidus_ charm—a charm that transforms its victim's words into embarrassing pig squeals. The remainder of Phillip's insult comes out in a high-pitched squeal that ends on a nasal snort. Meredith gives me a dirty look before turning to Phillip, and I can hear Malfoy laughing behind me.

"Who knew you had it in you, eh, Granger?" he says. "Very nice."

I smile, despite myself, feeling proud and very pleased with Malfoy's approval.

Inside Peter's office, Malfoy finally lets me go, and though I miss the presence of his hands on my arms, I pretend not to notice the loss. Peter looks at the both of us, his beady black eyes looking like little beetles trapped in his head as they shift left and right between the two of us.

"So, you two have finally done it, then?"

I open my mouth in shocked protestation. This has got to be some kind of violation of workplace privacy! Why does everyone care so much about my bedroom activities…especially with Draco Malfoy? Merlin knows they've all probably begun some sordid betting—

"Bugger. Guess Olson was right. My bid for Saturday was too far," Peter continues, looking disappointed.

…_I'll need an expensive solicitor. No sense hiring cheap if I want my lawsuit to become successful. Inexcusable, slanderous and vilifying accusations from pornography-watching co-workers, violation of workplace privacy by outrageous employers, unwanted (but enjoyed) sexual advances from gorgeous co-workers…I suppose I'll get a good three-hundred thousand galleon from this…_

"Actually, sir," Malfoy pipes up, "we haven't. Yet."

…_or maybe six-hundred thousand because I'll be going after Malfoy and all his money as well…_

"Here's to success then, eh?" replies Peter with a wink at Malfoy.

"Indeed, sir," nods Malfoy with a smirk.

I am just about to voice my very righteous indignation when Peter begins:

"Now, I've got two invites for that new restaurant that opened up in Hydensaw last week. The bloke who owns it is willing to pay handsomely for a review in Bewitched. See where I'm going with this?" He doesn't wait for us to answer. "Good. So, I want the both of you to have a look at it on Saturday, write something _nice_ and give it to me on Tuesday next week, yeah?"

He retrieves two envelopes from the drawer of his desk and holds them up for us to take.

"What's the name of the restaurant?" I ask sourly, still peeved.

"It's in the envelope, Granger. Everything you need to know is in the envelope. Just be there on Saturday at eight."

Peter makes a shooing motion with his hands that signals the exhaustion of our welcome in his office. Malfoy leaves first, and I'm following behind him when Peter calls after me:

"And Granger, do something with that _hair_."

* * *

><p>Like a good journalist, I fire up my laptop and immediately do research on <em>La Bouchee<em>—the name of the restaurant that Peter has requested I review. I don't acquire much information on its background or even its founder, but I do learn that it serves French cuisine at astronomical prices that only the absurdly wealthy or the absurdly foolish would pay.

But that does not concern me, because along with my invite came the written—and signed—assurance that anything and everything I order will be free. I vaguely wonder if they'll take kindly to my ordering three extra meals and two bottles of wine as takeaway…

The rest of Wednesday goes by without incident, and so does Thursday and Friday. I hardly see Malfoy because, finally, he's doing the job he's been hired for, and my other important side projects of winning an online Scrabble tournament and honing my artistic abilities in Paint have kept me incredibly busy. I don't even notice his absence. Honestly. I really don't.

Ok. I probably missed him _just_ a bit.

But at least it wasn't as though I was sneaking glances at him while he was typing away at his computer. And it wasn't as though I was wondering whether he'd noticed the new perfume I was wearing. And it really wasn't as though I was considering going over to strike up conversation with him. I absolutely did not do any of those things!

Ok. I probably did do _some_ of those things.

But that doesn't matter, because, now it's Saturday, the day of the dinner with Malfoy, and I'm honestly _not_ anticipating it. That's the _furthest_ thing from my mind right now. There's lots more important matters to utilise my brainpower on! I'm so unconcerned about this evening's proceedings that I won't even mentally assess my wardrobe and ponder on the perfect article of clothing to wear. And who cares about my hair, anyway? Surely not I!

However, I've got to make a good impression on the restaurant owner, haven't I? Tonight, Malfoy and I will be representatives of Bewitched, and it just wouldn't do for me to appear as though I threw on anything that came to hand. Frankly, I don't care what people think about me, but it wouldn't hurt to look presentable. Not to mention, Peter _did_ order me to do something with my hair. I've got to keep Bewitched's image in mind!

So, really, wearing that fabulous, figure-flattering turquoise dress wouldn't be that bad. And those new stilettos I bought on sale too. And those diamond studs with the accompanying necklace Ginny gave me for my birthday is hardly overdoing it! It's all for the company. I must look my best all for Bewitched's sake!

Therefore, going through the trouble of straightening my hair is really no trouble at all, whatsoever! There'll be no personal gratification from this! No ulterior motives to be achieved! I'm not out to look good for any special person! And so what if I'm going to this dinner with Malfoy? It's not as if he'll notice my efforts or compliment me, or even give me an appreciative once-over. That's not what I'm after!

Honestly!

It's really and truly all for Bewitched!

* * *

><p>It's an hour into our meal and it's more than apparent that my six-hour task of transferring myself into a head-turning beauty has been all for naught.<p>

Malfoy doesn't even offer me a polite compliment on my appearance let alone spare me a glance.

I am gutted. I want to push away from my seat and run crying home in a very dramatic manner.

I feel so unutterably foolish! Why would I ever believe Malfoy would pay me any attention? Regardless of my best efforts, I'm sure Malfoy must have been in company with women ten times more beautiful than I could ever hope to be. So what if I'd ventured wearing make-up at Lavender's over-the-phone commands? So what if I'd suffered to wear stilettos with heels as bony as toothpicks? So what if I'd come grossly underdressed for the chilly spring weather? I would never be able to truly get his attention.

Not that I'm looking for it.

_Oh, who am I trying to fool? Only myself! _

I want Malfoy to want me. To truly want me, and not as some kind of game. I want him to notice me. To value me. I want him to see I'm worth his time, even though the prideful part of me declares, on a daily basis, that _he_ is not worth _my_ time. And I don't want to get his interest just because I look pretty. I want him interested in what makes me _me_.

And to an extent, this scares me a little. Makes me a bit angry too. Heretofore, I'd been happily cruising along in life, comfortable in my beliefs when it came to romantic entanglements. Yet, within mere weeks, Draco Malfoy has completely shifted my focus, eroded whatever hard groundwork I'd set in my mind about love.

I mean, not that I _love_ Malfoy.

Really. That's…just ridiculous.

"That broccoli's not going to eat itself, Granger," says Malfoy as he feasts heartily on his veal. "Nor is it going to disappear anytime soon even if you keep shoving it around your plate."

"Mind your own business, Malfoy," I reply sulkily. "You're not my mother."

"Thank Merlin for that. To have borne and raised a snotty little sourpuss like you surely must have been quite the task."

I scowl. "Pot, kettle, black and all that jazz."

He stops eating and leans back in his chair to survey me.

"What's got your knickers in a twist, Granger?"

"Why are you interested in the condition of my knickers, Malfoy?"

"It's a figure of speech." He leans forwards, smirk half-formed. "Unless you want me to be interested in your knickers?"

I stand up abruptly. Anger flooded my blood so quickly, it's as if it had been floating around in the air, intermingled with the oxygen I intake with every deep inhale. Without saying a word to Malfoy, I grab up my things and make for the door, proud of myself for not teetering embarrassingly on my heels.

Outside, it's still cold, and I'm digging through my purse looking for my wand when I hear Malfoy behind me. He hasn't said anything to identify himself, but I just _know_ it's him. I dig through my purse even faster.

"I can take you home," he says quietly after my evident searching has yet to produce my wand.

I make a sound of great disbelief. "Of course you can. And after you take me home, you'll find some opportunity to manoeuvre yourself between my legs." I turn and face him. "And what happens after that, Malfoy? When you've won, what next? You go telling all your old Slytherin mates? You go telling the Daily Prophet to print it on their front page? You go telling the entire Wizarding world that you fucked Hermione Granger?"

His forehead creases into a scowl and the corners of his lips draws downwards.

"How ironic, Granger. Hasn't that been _your_ intention with _me_?"

Faced with my hypocrisy, my anger quells. Earlier, I'd marched out of the restaurant, properly vexed that all Malfoy seemed to want from me was sex, yet, I'd become interested in him in the first place for that very same reason. I suppose that what irritates me the most is that regardless that I am, indeed, the one who began this game, somehow, Malfoy has managed to take the reins; to constantly be one step ahead.

I am the spoilsport, getting agitated because I'm losing.

Or maybe I'm becoming agitated because I don't see this as a game anymore…

But further contemplation on that train of thought is dangerous.

"You know what, Malfoy? It has," I say, feeling determined now. "It _has_ been my intention all along. I was to find you, friend you, feed you, fuck you, then forget you. But I'm thinking maybe it's better for the both of us if I skip the fourth and go right to the fifth."

Malfoy steps closer. "Is that right? And I suppose you think that's so diplomatic? Everybody wins, right, Granger? No. Sounds an awful lot like cowardice to me. _Gutless_."

I bristle. "I am not gutless. I am just fed up of whatever this is going on between us and it needs to stop."

"It needs to stop because it's not going your way. Gutless _and_ selfish. Why don't you just finish what you started, Granger? Or have you always been all talk but no action?"

He's baiting me. I know this. And yet, I cannot stop the vexation. I cannot stop the feeling that I do indeed have something to prove. Prove it to him and shut his big fat mouth up. I am no coward. Hermione Granger will _never_ be a coward. I don't know what Malfoy's aim is but I suddenly have come to terms with mine: as easily as I can have sex with him, is as easily as I can—and will—forget him. Therefore, my job will be complete.

I close the distance between us and kiss him.

* * *

><p>I don't know how we've managed to get into my living room, but I'm sure Apparition must have been involved. And because I know it wasn't me, I'm vaguely impressed that Malfoy can still maintain enough concentration to perform Side-Along Apparition whilst snogging.<p>

He begins walking me backwards in the direction of my bedroom, but the nearest wall obstructs us so we opt to lean against it instead. One of his hands grips my hip while the other keeps my neck in place as he kisses me. He is not as gentle or as smooth as when he'd first kissed me in the Electronics room. There is anger in his kiss; I can feel it with every swipe of his tongue against mine, and the way his fingers keep clenching and unclenching around my neck.

But I don't mind, because I'm just as irritated too. If he thinks he can cow me or has set out to 'teach me a lesson' then he'll be grossly disappointed. His roughness will not deter me. Whenever he bites my lip, I'll bite back. Whenever he squeezes my neck, I'll squeeze back as well.

"Not backing out, Granger?" he whispers against my lips.

I retort: "Is that hope I hear, Malfoy? Who's the gutless one now—"

He shuts me up with a kiss as he relocates his hands at my shoulders to shove the straps of my dress down my arms. There's a moment where I hesitate allowing the material to fall thereby exposing my braless upper half, but pride and feeling Malfoy's smirk against my lips forces me to let my dress puddle to the floor at my ankles.

He pulls a little away from me to stare at my body. I dearly want to reach down, pick up my dress and cover myself from his gaze. My bravery points have now been entirely used up. Self-consciousness reigns supreme within my heart when I consider the svelte, celery-stick munching type of women Draco Malfoy is probably used to, and that I'd never be able to compare.

"What?" I say defensively, terrified that there's some sarcastic barb on the tip of his tongue waiting to be hurled.

But he says nothing. Instead, he reaches for me and pulls me in for yet another kiss. No longer rough, softly, sweetly, he moves his lips over mine before he parts them. Explorative, teasing and frustrating in its unhurriedness, he kisses me even as his right hand slides over my hip, waist, sternum to cup my breast in his palm.

Against my will, I moan. Soft little whimpers escape from me as Malfoy squeezes and fondles my breast and rolls my nipple in the gap between his thumb and forefinger. Intuitively, I tilt my head back, sighing as his mouth grazes downwards past my chin, over my neck to place feather-light kisses along my shoulder blade.

Then, as his lips meander further downwards, I sift my fingers through his hair, moaning again when he takes my breast into his mouth. My body seems to be moving of its own accord. I no longer have control of myself. Despite my writhing, Malfoy holds on to me, giving my breasts equal, laving attention, his tongue gentle yet persistent in each stroke and curl and flick against my nipples.

I can feel the subtle tingling between my legs, and my entire skin becoming warmer. With every passing second, I'm growing less hesitant of my actions and more agitated with this slow pace. No longer am I smoothing my hands along Malfoy's shoulders. Instead, I grip the lapels of his dinner jacket and try to ease it off.

He releases my breast and kisses me.

"Someone's in a hurry," he says in husky tones. "Do you want me that much, Granger?"

Attempting to sound haughty despite my breathlessness: "I just think it's really unfair that I'm already down to my knickers and you're still fully clothed."

"And I think it's really unfair that you're not completely naked yet, Granger. But I guess patience is a virtue, hmm?"

"A quote invented purely for procrastinators to feel good about themselves."

He laughs softly.

"So, I'm wasting time, then?" he replies as he shrugs out of his dinner jacket and drops it on the floor. He yanks his shirt from the belted confines of his trousers and begins to unbutton it. With uncharacteristic brazenness, I lean forwards and brush his hands away, unbuttoning the remaining buttons myself.

"I think that's the first thing we've ever agreed on."

When his shirt hangs open, I take the opportunity to splay my fingers over his stomach and rove my hands upwards, thoroughly enjoying the firmness and warmth of his skin against my palms. A part of me is still amazed that this is reality, that right now, I am standing three-quarters naked with Draco Malfoy in my living room, that, inevitably, we're going to have sex.

I should feel hesitancy, shouldn't I? At this point, as Draco toes off his shoes and I mine, there should be a moment where common sense is awakened from its deep sleep and reminds me that this is not a bad idea but a disastrous one. Even now, as he's kissing me and walking me backwards to my bedroom, alarm bells and shrill whistles and flashing neon signs reading: STOP! STOP! STOP! should be revolving in my head…

But there's nothing like that. There's no doubt or hesitation as we sink into my mattress. No admonishing voices of reason as we discard the remnants of our clothing. And there's certainly no revolving warning signs as our mouths and hands explore each other, as our bodies meet and learn and become familiar with a rhythm as old as time itself.

No, nothing like that at all. Instead—and much to my great surprise—there's only a sense of rightness, a sense of being _accosted_ by clarity as Draco makes love to me. And that is what he does. Despite our hastiness and our roughness from the beginning, everything slows down, becomes gentle and mellow. He does not _fuck_ me nor I him, and gone is my earlier determination to 'prove a point'.

Instead, a point has been proven silently to me:

I've found him, befriended him, fed him and made love to him…

But I don't think it'll ever be possible to forget Draco Malfoy.

Shit.

* * *

><p>AN: That's right, Hermione. I bet he proved that point to you <em>real<em> good. -:cheeky grin:-


	8. Surprise!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and/or the characters of the original story created by J.K. Rowling.

_Chapter Eight: Surprise!_

"Granger, do you know that you talk in your sleep?"

I blink slowly, fighting to clear the sleepiness from my eyes. Full consciousness does not come to me right away, but when it does, I'm hastily shoving myself up into a sitting position to stare at…Malfoy.

In my bed.

With no shirt on.

And because my—my!—bed sheets are covering him from the waist down, Merlin knows what else he does _not_ have on.

Unbidden, lurid and lewd images flood my mind's eye, with Malfoy and I starring prominently in the show.

Oh. My. _God_.

I fucked Malfoy.

He chuckles. "You most certainly did, Granger. Though, to preserve my pride, I'd rather say it was the other way around."

He's lying on his left side, his elbow propped up on my pillow, his head supported by his palm. Smiling, he looks as relaxed as if he belongs there, notwithstanding that my feminine fuchsia bed sheets are in direct contrast to his obvious masculinity.

I blush, embarrassed that I'd spoken aloud.

"Why are you still here?" I demand. "Aren't you the type to sneak off during the middle of the night, never to be heard from again?"

He smiles even more. "That'll be just a bit complicated since we work together. Plus," here, his eyes develop a mischievous look as his gaze wanders below my neck, "I was hoping for seconds. Especially with the way you're enticing me, Granger."

Belatedly, I realise that not only is he shirtless, so am I. And braless too.

I grab at the sheet to cover myself, but he yanks it away, and when I quickly reach for a pillow, he grabs my forearm and pulls me towards him. He tries to climb on top of me, but I'm now determined to be the victor in this struggle. I wiggle around like a woman possessed, trying to needle my elbows along his sternum.

Alas, Malfoy's a lot stronger than I've anticipated. He lays all of his weight onto me, restricting my breathing temporarily as he grabs my hands and forces them above my head. Leaning his elbows into the pillow on either sides of my head, and pinning my hands with both of his, he gives me a smug smile.

"I find it laughable that you'd thought you could win me in strength, Granger."

Annoyed that he could read me so easily, I say: "Why must everything be a competition with you?"

"Pot, kettle, black and all that jazz," he returns, still smiling.

"Get off of me," I begin wiggling again, blushing when I feel something firm grazing my thigh. "This has got to be the most clichéd position ever. Obviously, you've read far too many romance novels of the 'heroine held captive against their own will' sort. That's really pathetic, Mal—"

He bends his head and kisses me; a slow, toe-curling kiss that immediately quells all the fight in me. When one of his hands releases mine to trail along the sides of my breast to my hip, I take the opportunity to wrap my freed hand around his neck.

"Why do you do this to me?" he says very softly against my lips, but I haven't any focus to ask him what he means, because he's kissing me again, and his free hand is doing amazing things with my breast, and, somehow, he's managed to get completely between my thighs…

_Merlin. I think I'm in trouble._

* * *

><p>On Monday, I call in sick.<p>

"Sick with what?" sneers Meredith down the line.

"Err…the flu." I give a little cough.

"The flu?" says she in tones dripping in great scepticism. "It's not even flu season. You're just trying to skive off, aren't you?"

"Absolutely not! I am very sick! So sick I could probably die right now talking to you, Meredith. You really ought to show more concern for your fellow—"

She hangs up on me.

No matter. My mission is accomplished. I will not be showing up to work today.

Therefore, I will not have to face Malfoy.

Having fallen asleep shortly after our…err…'second session' on Sunday, I'd awoken to find Malfoy gone. I'd been disappointed he hadn't stayed, but upon further contemplation during the day, I'd felt it had been for the best. How awkward it would have been to try to make polite conversation with him, while my mind was replaying the scenes of me moaning and groaning with great abandonment beneath him…

_Ugh_. He is right. Avoiding each other will be complicated indeed, since we share the same work space. Had I considered this consequence, I would definitely not have chosen him to be my test subject for my 'Five Fs' regime. No wonder I'd come to the conclusion that I'd never forget him. Who would, when, for twenty days in each month—give or take a day or two—I'd be seeing his smug little face at work?

Still—never say never! I _can_ forget Malfoy! A few weeks ago, he'd not registered on my radar whatsoever. To me, he'd been some awful bloke whom I'd had the misfortune of encountering during my schooling, and after I'd left Hogwarts, I'd never heard about him again. So insignificant he'd been in my life, that I'd almost come to forget he'd ever existed!

I can certainly get back to that stage again! Easy! Simple! Hardly worth fussing over!

So what if I'm attracted to him now? Who cares that we've had sex twice in the span of twelve hours? Who gives a rat's pink—maybe brown?—arse that all I ever think about these days is him? Nobody! Especially not me.

Besides, Draco Malfoy is a rude, insulting, overbearing, callous, evil, overconfident, supercilious, clever, charming, hilarious—wait!

Ok. Let's start over.

Draco Malfoy is a rude, insulting, gorgeous, evil, amazing—

Fuck.

Oh, yes. That's true. He _is_ an amazing fuck—

Fuck!

In an effort to take my mind off of Malfoy, I decide to do some housework. There's not much to do, but whatever I do find, I invest as much energy and concentration in them as though completing them would ensure the earth's perfect balance or bring about world peace.

Finished with these tasks, I remember the review I'm to type up for _La Bouchee_. Grateful for a worthwhile distraction, I retrieve my laptop from my bag, and begin typing away. However, during intermediate moments when I'm pondering on phrases to use in my review, thoughts of Malfoy slither around in my brain, and on its trail are ridiculous questions that ought not to be considered.

_Did Saturday night mean anything to him? Did sleeping with me fulfill his mission of 'winning?' And if that's so, what now? Will he move on to his next conquest and forget about me?_

Regardless of my inherent self-denial thus far, that last thought truly is the most upsetting. To say that Saturday night and Sunday morning hadn't meant something to _me_ would be a lie. Therefore, to consider the idea—the great possibility!—that all it had been for Malfoy was a quick shag, another notch on his bedpost, hurts more than I'd have liked.

Because, I'm no longer just attracted to him. I like him. Very, very much.

And I want him to like me. Very, very much too.

* * *

><p>During the rest of the week, my worst fears are confirmed:<p>

Draco Malfoy has used me.

This is learnt when, upon returning to work on Tuesday, he ignores me entirely. On Wednesday, when I pluck up the courage to approach him so I could invite him to lunch with me, he pretends he doesn't see me coming, and heads off in the other direction. On Thursday, when Wendy—resident matchmaker of the office—asks him to go with me to oversee a photo shoot for her, he declines, claiming he had 'too much work to do,' even though I spied him playing FreeCell for most of the day…

And on Friday, at lunchtime, I hear this:

"Hi Draco, I'm free now. Is the offer for lunch still open?"

Dumbstruck, I surreptitiously peep over my cubicle wall to see Draco rising from his seat, and escorting a smiling Petunia towards the door.

That…_bitch!_

_No. She's not the one at fault, Hermione. Shame on you!_

In that case:

That…_bastard!_

Then, mere seconds later:

"H-h-herm-mione?"

A shiver of dread runs along my spine, I turn to the owner of the voice, even though I already knew who it is.

"What is it, Ned?" I ask, my stomach feeling like if I've swallowed a rock. Who knew that betrayal felt so heavy and tasted so bitter?

A self-satisfied smile on his freckled face, he says: "Since y-you're n-not seeing that g-git anym-m-more, how ab-b-bout we g-go f-f-for lunch?"

* * *

><p>I manage to avoid Ned's invite yet again with a fabricated excuse that my monthly has arrived, and that excessive walking would ensure a gush of blood erupting from between my legs, leaving a bloody trail as we walked. I make sure to go into extraordinary detail. Very disgusted, he stumbles off, not even bothering to suggest Apparition.<p>

At home on Friday evening, I bang around a lot of things, not quite sure what I'm meant to do.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

I feel a scorned woman. And I am furious.

How could he have been so blatant in his disregard for me? Had it really been all a game for him? And why does this hurt so much? What is this painful feeling in the general vicinity of my heart? It is suspiciously familiar…

_Heartbreak._

I wish I'd never met Malfoy. I regret that I used him as my test subject, that I'd become attracted to him, that I'd subsequently slept with him, and that I'd allowed my feelings to deepen for him. Not to mention that he has completely destroyed the efficacy of my 'Five Fs' dating plan. What am I to write in my article now? How am I to convince my readers that it works, when I've failed at it myself?

But I just don't understand it! Often, he'd seemed so genuine in his interest towards me. In the moments at work when he's not either pawing at or insulting me, we'll carry on a decent, amiable conversation. I'd even go so far as saying that we'd 'become friends.' So why the sudden change of attitude?

If he'd only wanted to have sex with me, why had he stayed with me on Saturday night?

And, upon reflection, what had he meant by that little statement he had made?

_Why do you do this to me?_

How am I to interpret such a sentence? Why is he such a fan of ridiculously cryptic messages that drives me to frustration? Why doesn't he just say what he means, and mean what he says? I'm fed up of this round-the-mulberry-bush business, and I won't stand for him confusing me anymore! This has to stop right here and right now! And if he's not willing to be forthcoming, I'll go and force it out of him!

* * *

><p>"Draco hasn't lived here in nearly a year," says Narcissa Malfoy in airy tones, sipping delicately at her glass of wine as an extremely handsome man massages her feet. "When his father passed away, he decided to move to Hogsmeade." The curling of her upper lip advertised what she thought about this decision.<p>

_I live in Hogsmeade. It isn't _that_ bad. _

"Oh…I see," I reply, feeling incredibly uncomfortable and stupid. Why have I brazenly Floo-ed to the Malfoy Manor? What had I hoped to achieve? And why has Narcissa Malfoy left her Floo gate open, especially when she is engaged in what I'm very sure is the lead-up to coitus on the chaise she is lying on?

Ashamed of my poor manners, I open my mouth to thank her for her time, and to scamper back to my flat. But she continues talking.

"I said to him: 'Draco, dear, Hogsmeade is hardly fit for elves, let alone decent Pureblood wizards.' But he wouldn't listen to me. Instead, he takes his inheritance and purchases one of those atrocious buildings. The name avoids me…" she makes a flighty, expansive gesture with her free hand, "oh, yes: he purchases a block of flats."

Astonished, I stare at her.

His _inheritance_?

He purchased a _building_?

And now that I think about it, if he's so rich, why is he even working at Bewitched?

Narcissa continues on, amazing me further that she can be this talkative.

"And to add insult to injury, he moves into this building. He's become a commoner!" Her face contorts as if it's her worst nightmare made into reality. "He even decided to get a _job_. Can you believe this? My son, my one and only boy, _working_? Isn't that just _dreadful_?"

"Err…I guess so?"

She ignores me and takes another sip of her wine. "But it's not so bad, I suppose, since he owns the business. I said to him: 'Draco, dear, owning a magazine is hardly a respectable business venture. However, if you're so determined to have your way, I'll suggest getting rid of that Muggle-loving Peter Mosley.'" She glances at me. "No offence, dear."

I'm so far beyond dumbstruck, I cannot even give name to how I'm feeling, let alone respond with the polite, "None taken," to Narcissa.

Draco Malfoy owns Bewitched. How is this possible? Didn't Peter Mosley inherit it from his uncle?

And then, I remember Peter Mosley's unconditional love for money. He'll sell his soul to the highest bidder, if the opportunity ever arose.

But the news of Malfoy owning Bewitched dwindles in importance as Narcissa's words replay themselves in my head:

_And to add insult to injury, he moves into this building._

A few weeks ago, on that fateful Saturday when Ron had showed up unexpectedly, Malfoy had materialised from the flat directly opposite mine. In the heat of the drama with Ron, and my subsequent bawling on Malfoy's shirt, I'd completely forgotten to question him about it, and he'd never said anything either. But could it be that Malfoy…that that _git_ had made me come all the way over to Malfoy Manor, when I could've simply opened my door and crossed the hallway instead?

Fuming once more, I thank Narcissa for her time, apologise for my rude and unannounced visit, and when she replies: "Not a worry, my dear. It's not your fault that your Muggle heritage couldn't teach you proper manners," I grab a handful of her Floo powder and make my way home.

Standing in the hallway, I beat my fist a few times on the door of flat number 217. I'm so angry, I don't even remember what it feels like to not be angry! All this time…_all this time!_ He'd been living right across from me. He'd said that I'm the one who'd started all of this game playing, but the evidence pointed to the contrary. _He_ is the one who had started all of this!

_Why?_

Why would Malfoy set about entrenching himself permanently in places he knew I already existed? Why would he buy the building I live in? Why would he buy the company I work with? Why would he lower himself to be treated as an employee when he is the owner? Why did he kiss me? Why did he keep coming after me? Why did he sleep with me? Why? Why? _Why?_

When there's no response to my knocks, I begin to question myself. Had I really seen Malfoy come out of this flat? Or had he been just standing in the hallway? But why would he be standing in the hallway if he didn't live here? Had he come to visit someone that _did_ live here, and had managed to be in the right place at the right time to witness my meet with Ron? Had he come to visit me?

Unlikely.

Turning around, I head back to my own door, feeling confused and angry and frustrated. However, the sound of a door being opened draws my attention.

I turn my head to the sound.

Standing there in a bathrobe, his hair darkened and dripping with water, and his smug smile in place:

"Three days?" says Malfoy. "That didn't take very long, Granger. I'm flattered."

* * *

><p>AN: As I'd made mention before, I had no intention for this story to be long and drawn out. Thus, I'd like to announce that the next chapter will be the last. There might be an epilogue—this depends on how the story ends, and how I'm feeling.<p>

Thank you, everyone, for such fantastic reviews so far. I admit I've been slacking on my replies, but don't think I don't read every single review, 'cause I do! I'll have to do better in the way of replies, though.

Hope you liked the update! :)


	9. And The Winner Is?

**Post Update AN:** Once again, thank you, _Seyfert_, for lending a helping hand. Had you not eyes of a High Grammar Nazi, Draco and Hermione would have become pretty inventive with those 'vertical surfaces.' Hahaha!

Here you go, my lovelies! The last chapter of The Five Fs. Enjoy it to the fullest! :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and the characters of the original story created by J.K Rowling.

_Chapter Nine: And The Winner Is?_

For a short moment, I'm frozen still, amazed that my conclusions about Malfoy had been correct. But then the heat of anger thaws me, and, without thinking, I pull my hand back and punch him.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—he ducks away at the last moment, avoiding most of the hit, but suffering a slight clip along his jaw. But that is not enough for me. There's this insane urge that has risen in me, a need to physically hurt Malfoy as much as possible. I want to slap and kick and bite and even pinch him. I want him to suffer my wrath and rue the very day he'd concocted his idiotic plans to mess with me.

"Sweet Circe, Granger!" he says in surprise, fighting to subdue me. "Calm down, woman!"

"You. Stupid. Arse!" I practically scream, each word punctuated by an attempt to hit him. "You. Fucking. Git! Bastard! Wanker! _Dickhead!_"

He finally manages to grab one of my wrists, yanking me sideways towards him. With my back pressed up against his front, he easily pins my other arm against my stomach, and joins it with the first. We're both breathing very hard from the struggle. I can feel his chest rising and falling against my back, and feel his warm breath against my ear as he breathes through his open mouth.

I try not to think how turned on I am.

I'm angry, damnit! Downright furious! It's absolutely ridiculous of me to be anticipating Malfoy bending me forwards and shagging me right where we're standing!

"Dickhead?" he finally says, his breath tickling my ear. "Bastard, I can take, but that's just going unnecessarily far, Granger."

"I think it's tame, considering the others I could have used," I reply in cattish tones.

"For instance?"

"Cocksucker," I respond immediately.

"I'm trying to decide whether your filthy mouth disgusts me or turns me on." I can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Let me go, Malfoy," I demand, struggling slightly to escape his enforced backwards hug. "Don't make me kick you in the shins."

"You're too violent, Granger." He begins to softly sway us side by side. "Maybe you should sign up for anger management therapy, hmm?"

"And maybe you should admit yourself into the nearest asylum, though I doubt they've advanced their charms to work against your level of craziness."

"Crazy? Maybe." He keeps on swaying us, left to right, right to left. I'm beginning to lose my hold on my anger.

"There's no 'maybe,' Malfoy," I reply in a calmer voice. "You _are_ crazy. _This_ is crazy." Then: "Why are you following me?"

He becomes still, holding me a little tighter against him. He says nothing for some time, and as I wait for him to speak, the vestiges of my anger wither away. I am left feeling comfortable—even happy—in his embrace. I've soon forgotten why I was so angry in the first place. I'm thinking how wonderful it would be if we stayed just like this for a while, where I can smell the strong, male scent of his shampoo and his freshly bathed skin, where I can feel the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat against my back, and the security of his arms around me.

_This is good._

_I like this._

_I'd like more of this._

Quietly, he finally says:

"Hermione, have I won yet?"

My body stiffens.

Ah. Still a game, then. Always a game—a competition to win. Never something genuine.

My eyes prickling suspiciously, I try to extricate myself from his arms, but he holds me even tighter still.

"Have I won yet?" he repeats. "Tell me."

"How would I know?" I explode, amazed and ashamed that I've begun to cry. Why am I crying? This is absurd! There's absolutely no plausible reason why I should be crying. Or maybe these are tears of joy? But why would I be crying tears of joy? I'm not very happy at the moment. Not happy at all. If happiness had a metre measuring at one hundred, I'd be so far in the negatives, the metre would have broken. I feel like my heart has been run-over by an 18-wheeler truck, chock full of the heaviest things imaginable.

And even feeling like that is silly, too. I'd set foot into this _thing_ that Malfoy and I shared with both eyes wide open. I'd been extremely confident in my abilities to keep it No Strings Attached. Alas, here I am, holding on to one end of a string, hoping that Malfoy would pick up the other end. When had it become like this? When?

"How would I know?" I say again, bowing my head so he won't know I am crying. "I'm not privy to the sick and twisted plans you've got in your head."

"So, trying to make you fall in love with me is sick and twisted?"

"_What_?"

"Have I won yet?"

"What did you just say?" I demand, gobsmacked, and very sure I'd heard wrong.

"I said: 'have I won yet?' Blind, angry and _deaf_? That really is too much, Granger. We've got to get you examined immediately."

"Before that, you arse!" Like magic, I've stopped crying.

"I don't appreciate being called an arse. Do you know how much money I've spent to get you to notice me? Do you know how much time and energy and resources I've invested, Granger? Being insulted is hardly any decent repayment, you ingrate."

"It's not my fault you wasted your money, Malfoy," I say, trying to sound snooty and failing miserably. My happiness metre has made an about-turn, swelling upwards beyond the 100 mark now.

The timbre of his voice becomes deeper and softer, reigniting my desire as he presses her lips closer to my ear. "It's entirely your fault. When I bought this building, whose name should I see but yours on the tenants list? I came to visit you with all intents for you to grovel at my feet while I lorded the fact that I am your landlord over your head, but you were never home. I tried lingering in the hallway to catch you going or coming to your flat, but I never caught you."

"You arrogant—" I begin, but he keeps on talking. Like mother, like son, perhaps…

"And then I became curious. 'Why is Granger living in a shithole like this? And why doesn't she ever go outside? Has she become much more hideous since I've seen her last?'"

I try to elbow him in his stomach but he blocks me from doing so.

"I'll punish you later," he says huskily, "but I want to finish my tale first. Where was I?"

"At the part where you were being the perfect prat."

He ignores me. "And I was thinking: 'Good God, if she doesn't even _walk_, then she's probably so huge—" my successful elbowing cuts him off. "Anyway, I decided to find out where you worked. So I hired a private investigator…"

"You've got to be joking. You _are_ joking, aren't you?"

"…and he found out where you worked…"

"That is _stalking!_ That's illegal! I should get you arrested!"

"…and I went and applied for a job at Bewitched…"

"Like Bewitched would hire a no-talent like you, Malfoy. One article from you and our sales would plummet disastrously…"

"…and that Mosley git rejected my application. So I bought the company…"

"You _are_ mad. No—you're insane! Mentally malfunctioned!"

"…and had Mosley assign you to be my trainer…"

"…you're worse than Dumbledore. All of this devious scheming…"

"…and then, I saw _you_—certainly not hideous or huge. Quite the complete opposite, actually."

I gasp dramatically. "Malfoy, is that a _compliment_? The world is about to end!"

"…and then, I saw your article, and my _name_ in your article."

He lets me go, and then turns me around to face him. Looping his hands around my waist, he pulls me to him, lifting one hand to rub his thumb against my cheek where my tears have dried. It's such a simple, yet intimate gesture, and it surprises me that Malfoy has the capability to be this gentle. There's a pleasantly strange movement in the pit of my stomach: more than a flutter, less than a flip, something in between the two.

"You weren't supposed to see," I reply, suddenly shy.

"But I _did_ see. Find them, friend them, feed them, fuck them, forget them, and Draco Malfoy tacked on as well. I said to myself: 'Challenge accepted. _Nobody_ forgets Draco Malfoy.' And I really set out to prove you wrong, Granger, but somewhere along the way, it became less of a challenge, and more of a need to win. Instead of proving to you that you could never forget me, I was learning that I'd never be able to forget you."

My ensuing smile is very smug, indeed. It conceals the fact that inside, I'm screaming myself hoarse with elation, because, really, how often does a girl hear that she's unforgettable?

I eye him hard, wondering if he's telling the truth. This moment is too astounding to immediately believe it's true. If what he's shared with me thus far are lies, then Draco Malfoy really is a master of deceit. But he seems genuine, meeting my gaze so forthrightly, and this feels genuine too.

"So, for the last bloody time, I'm going to ask you: have I won yet?" he finishes.

Moving closer, I smooth my hands over the exposed parts of his chest to wrap them around his neck. On tiptoe, I lean into him and give him a sweet, chaste kiss on his lips. Of course, Draco Malfoy is and always will be greedy, and he exhibits this trait by tightening his hold around my waist and deepening our kiss into something hard and desperate.

Before I realise what's happening, my shirt has already been taken off and thrown to parts unknown, and I'm yanking on the belt of Draco's bathrobe. Like Saturday night, he's walking me backwards, and I'm very sure it's towards something flat and horizontal that he could lay me on, whether it be bed, sofa or floor.

"No, not yet," I say softly against his lips as he presses my body into the bed with his. "You haven't won yet. But you're close. So very close."

His bends his head to drag his lips along the naked length of my body before returning them to meet mine.

I can feel him smiling.

"Then, I suppose I'll just have to keep trying until I do."

* * *

><p><em>x.x fin<em>

**-miz**


	10. Epilogue

**_Epilogue_**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Two years later…<em>**

.

.

The Three Ws

_That looks awfully plain. I _despise_ plain. Hmm, maybe I should underline it? But how do I go about doing that? Damn these finicky Muggle thingamabobs. Where is the bleeding button for this fuc—ah. Here it is. That little underlined 'U' button._

_I wonder what that slanted 'I' is for?_

_The Three Ws_

_Oooh! Fantastic!_

_And this 'B' button..._

_**The Three Ws**_

_Amazing! Much, much better, if I do say so myself! I'm such a genius._

_Anyway. Onwards to my fantastic article._

What are the Three Ws, you ask? Well, the Three Ws is a simplistic list of three words that all begins with the letter 'W.' Quite similar, but far superior to that rubbish 'Five Fs,' it is a guideline for men—but certainly not women; they'll only look desperate doing it—to follow when attempting to attain and keep the woman of their dreams.

The list is as follows:

_Wine them_

_Woo them_

_Wed them_

There are no variations of this list, and should I hear of any such nonsense, I will be most displeased. That is plagiarism. And I will sue the unfortunate bastard that tries to contest me on this fact.

Anyway. So, yes. The aforementioned is _my_ list, _my_ guideline, _my_ 'regime' for those poor sods who aren't good looking enough (like me), smart enough (like me) or charming enough (do I have to say it a third time?) to get the woman they want.

The list is really self-explanatory, and if you need me to further…err…

_Explain? No, already used 'explanatory.'_

_Make clear? Eh. Sounds funny._

_I'm very sure I saw Granger use some 'synonym' feature on this the other day—aha! Found it. And she called me moronic for not knowing how to 'Goggle' things. The nerve. Everybody _knows_ how to goggle!_

_Ok. Clarify…elucidate…expound…explicate—Explicate? Sounds very Granger-ish, all smart-arsey and clever. Perfect._

The list is really self-explanatory, and if you need me to further…_explicate_…then, you needn't bother using this list. No woman wants an idiot for a bloke. But, because I'm feeling especially generous, I'll…err…_elucidate_…a bit more.

_Wine them:_ Simple. Carry her out to an expensive restaurant. Preferably one that you own. But she doesn't need to know that you own it. The magic is in the ignorance! Take me, for instance—since I'm the perfect example to the successfulness of this list—I didn't let on that I owned _La Bouchee_ as well. Had she known, she would've learnt of my plans long before I could fully implement them! She's really too smart for her own good…

That went a bit off-track. No matter. I suppose you get the point. I won't waste another keystroke on you.

_Woo them:_ Do everything you can with this one. Touch her as often as you can, kiss her lots, pretend to be her lover to make her ex-boyfriend jealous so that she'll see you're a much better choice (what she sees in annoying sidekicks are really beyond me), orchestrate as much of your time with her—whether by blackmailing her boss or wandering by intentionally so she could notice you—and maybe even pretend to be interested in someone else. Please note that the latter suggestion might backfire. She might assume the worst, and never speak to you again. Tread carefully!

Of course, you don't have to use my suggestions. Yes, they may have worked for me, but inventiveness is always a plus, I suppose. Don't be boring. Women detest boring men.

Wed them: So, the fact that you've managed to get to this point, means that you've done something right. And when I mean you've done something right, I mean you've done exactly what I've suggested you do. Good.

"Draco, I can't believe you packed my laptop for our honeymoon trip, and that you're actually using it. I swear to Merlin if you're not making love to me in the next five minutes I'll divorce you as soon as we get back to Britain!"

However, if you've not managed to wed the woman of your dreams (like I did), then, you're a disobedient, boring, worthless git who rightly deserved the prompt rejection you got when you proposed. Go and do it over the right way—my way! This list is fool-proof. It works!

And I should know, because, I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, have already shown you how it's done.

* * *

><p><strong>:)<strong>


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